The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy ::

No sooner had the thirsty Sun withdrawn
His fiery Face beneath the Horrizon,
But out the Porcus waddles from his Sty,
To Derby Hogwash brew'd and sold just by;
Thus leaves his Buss'ness and forsakes his Home.
To wast the Ev'ning in some publick Room,
Where bulky Sots in giddy numbers meet.
Not to converse but smother Drink and Sweat,
And stretch their yielding Hides that those may boast,
The Stowage of their Casks that hold the most.
With Aspect flaming like a blazing Star,

And huge gotch Belly'd, like a Spanish Jar;
He straddles in, his Compliment he pays,
And then squats down in his accustom'd Place,
Where choak'd with Flegm, he blows a while for ease
Like sporting Crampos in the Northern Seas;

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For as the latter spouts, the former hauks,
And spits the Dregs of his last Night's Debauch;
When thus reliev'd, he asks the tipling Crowd,
Sitting like painted Gods in smoaky Cloud,
Whether the Ale deserves the Name of Good.
No sooner have the partial Judges made

A kind Report to please the drouthy Blade,
But with his Box of Weed to work he falls,
And charging of his Gun for Liquor calls;
Up comes the Ale, that may be drank or chew'd,
In some dark subterranean Dungeon brew'd,
Where none can see how basely they abuse
Their damn'd Lixivium with the Frauds they use,
Which is but Treacle coddl'd into Slime,
With Broom made bitter, and refin'd with Lime;
Beneath his Nose the Nipperkin is plac'd,
Where it stands ready for his Swineship's Taste.
First in a wrinkled Glass he views the Swill,
Commends its knitty Looks to shew his Skill,
And then returns it back into his Gill;

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Which e'er he lights his Pipe, the guzzling Sot,
Takes nimbly off at one luxurious Draught,
Then knocking for another, swears that Wine
Is nothing near so rich, or half so fine.
Thus Fools, for want of Judgment, oft esteem,
Like Æsop's Cock, an Oat before a Jem;
So the voracious Hog perhaps may think
His nasty Puddle is the best of Drink,
That he's as happy wallowing in his Mire,
As Brother Swine, who does no more desire
Than Derby, Sot-weed, and a rousing Fire.
Pleas'd with his Drink, he guzzles on apace,

And scores his Tankards in his scarlet Face;
For as he smoaking sits, each fresh supply,
Still more inflames, and gives a deeper Dye,
As if he blush'd that Malt should so prevail,
And make him such a Slave to nasty Ale,
Such slimy, lucious Filth, that's only fit
To give Men Bulk, and rob them of their Wit,
As Sleep to an Excess, with little Pains,
Will feed our Flesh but stupifie our Brains.

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Thus for six hours, each Night, he smoaks and drinks,
Talks very rarely but more seldom thinks,
As if his Doses of Lethargick Slime,
Like Opium made him dream away his time,
And that each poys'nous and bewitching Draught,
Impair'd his Mem'ry and destroy'd his Thought,
Or else he would have so much Sence at least,
To find himself transform'd into a Beast,
And would at once resist the Oily Charm,
That numb's the Soul, and does the Mind such harm,
Abjure the Custom of so vile a Drink,
Tinctur'd with Malt, but does of Spirits stink.

Thus on he guzzles, till the Watchman nicks,
With Twelve-a-Clock, his entering Hour of Six;
Then calling what's to pay, he strives to rise,
Weak in the Hams and drowsy in the Eyes;
At last, with much ado, the reeling Sot,
Staggers from Table to the Chamber-pot,
Where he stands tott'ring, sottishly content
To dribble out those Pence the Fool has spent;
Nor is the useful Urine he has made,
Like common Piss, to Channel Stream convey'd,

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'But carefully preserv'd in stinking Tub,
'Gainst they brew next, to meliorate their Bub.
What tho defil'd with loathsome Pox or Clap,
When first it drop'd from Nature's sinful Tap,
'Tis purg'd by Fire and purify'd with Lime,
And made fit Lap for Fools a second time;
Not only so, but he that keeps one House,
And does each Night the gummy Belch carouse,
The Leakage in one Week he leaves behind,
Is for his Palate by the next refin'd;
Thus the dull Sot unknowingly is made
A Pipe, by which the Liquor is convey'd,
Back to the Piss-burnt Copper whence it came,
And only drinks and pays for still the same;
So the Consumptive Wretch, in Hopes to heal
His Ulcerated Lungs when weak and ill,
From mortal Cask, his Morning's Draught he draws,
Catches what e'er from dangling Spiggot flows,
And the same Dregs into his Bung-hole throws.
Thus the poor Patient, tho his Physick stinks,
Drinks what he pisses, what he pisses drinks.

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When the dull Sot for half an hour has stood,
Preparing for the next good Ale that's brew'd,
To take his Night's Departure when h'as done,
At going off, he gives a rouzing Gun,
Then turns his brawny Buttocks on the Room,
And like a true Dutch Boar Reels belching home.

There totterings into Bed, and fizling lies,
Till Derby's ill Effects which close his Eyes,
Will without Head-ach give him leave to rise.

University of Virginia Library

The Character of a Derby Ale Sot.