 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
192
A Crambo Song, on Mr. J. Dennison,
A certain Publican, famous for his Beer.
Let the bards of these times
Call me forger of rhymes;
I care not—I swear I will pen-a-song;
And the praises I'll sing
Of an excellent thing;
And that is—a tankard of Dennison.
Call me forger of rhymes;
I care not—I swear I will pen-a-song;
And the praises I'll sing
Of an excellent thing;
And that is—a tankard of Dennison.
When at B---t's I dine,
Where there's plenty of wine,
To relish hair, partridge, or venison;
Be what will the treat,
Or whatever I eat,
I ne'er fail to remember John Dennison.
Where there's plenty of wine,
To relish hair, partridge, or venison;
Be what will the treat,
Or whatever I eat,
I ne'er fail to remember John Dennison.
What I tell you is true:
Could I have all Peru,
Or the beauteous, the rich
ward of—Renison,
I'd barter these offers,
Of filling my coffers,
To fill up my tankard with Dennison.
Could I have all Peru,
193
I'd barter these offers,
Of filling my coffers,
To fill up my tankard with Dennison.
If your son you desire
The world should admire,
Nor think him an ideot's, or zany's—son,
Would you clear up his head,
Send him humming to bed
Each night with a tankard of Dennison.
The world should admire,
Nor think him an ideot's, or zany's—son,
Would you clear up his head,
Send him humming to bed
Each night with a tankard of Dennison.
Heavy port makes us sad,
Champagne makes us mad,
And geneva drives folks into heinous-sin;
But no harm was e'er done,
By that son of a gun,
Who walks off with his skinful of Dennison.
Champagne makes us mad,
And geneva drives folks into heinous-sin;
But no harm was e'er done,
By that son of a gun,
Who walks off with his skinful of Dennison.
194
Could congo be found,
At six-pence a pound,
Was green, seven farthings, and ten—hyson;
I swear that no tea,
Should be liquor for me;
I'd sooner give guineas for Dennison.
At six-pence a pound,
Was green, seven farthings, and ten—hyson;
I swear that no tea,
Should be liquor for me;
I'd sooner give guineas for Dennison.
Then strike on the board,
The reck'ning's the word;
Let each man but lay his three-pennys on—
He then may go home,
With guts tight as a drum,
Fill'd out with a tankard of Dennison.
The reck'ning's the word;
Let each man but lay his three-pennys on—
He then may go home,
With guts tight as a drum,
Fill'd out with a tankard of Dennison.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |