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DRINKING SONG.

BY A TETOTALER.

“Ex ipso fonte bibi.”—
Ovid.

I've been drinking, I've been drinking,
To intoxication's edge;
Do not chide me; for the tipple
Was n't mentioned in the pledge.
Nay, believe me,—'t was not Brandy
Wrought the roses that you see;
One may get a finer crimson
From a purer eau-de-vie.
No, indeed; it was not Claret
(That were something overweak);
There 's a vastly better vintage
For the painting of a cheek.
Not Angelica,—the honey
By Loyola's children pressed
From the Andalusian clusters
Ripened in the Golden West;
Not Madeira, Hock, nor Sherry;
No, indeed, 't is none of these
Makes me giddy in the forehead,
Makes me tremble in the knees.
No; 't is not the Gallic “Widow”
That has turned my foolish brain,
Nor the wine of any vineyard
Found in Germany or Spain.
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Nay—I own it!—'t is the nectar
That a favored lover sips
(All unheeding of the danger!)
From a maiden's pulpy lips!
This it is that I 've been drinking
To intoxication's edge;
Till I marvel that the tipple
Is n't mentioned in the pledge!
For the taste is so enchanting
'T is impossible to see,
Should it grow into a habit,
What the consequence may be.
Well, I'll heed the sage's lesson,
Pleasant, though it prove in vain,
And by drinking very largely
Try to sober me again!
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