DEAR MR. EDITOR, It has always been my camping experience that the oldest among us, especially if he be a grey-haired patriarch, is invariably the greatest "alcoholic tempter" of the party. He it is who generally paralyzes the energies of his more youthful brethren with the matutinal cocktail; hence my "Tale of a Cocktail": THE Patriarch rose at the break of day, Ere the mists from the mountain had fled away, And loudly his merry roundelay, Rang over hill and vale: "Spirit of morn, we greet thee! Gladly we rise to meet thee, Difficult 't is to beat thee, Matutinal Cocktail!" A shudder ran thro' the listening throng, For many a time we had heard that song, And feared, alas! he was making it strong, This sour cocktail. But the sage went on with his morning lay, And no man dared to utter nay -- Ah! little recked he what we might say, This Patriarch hale. Thus he spake with deep emotion: "Trust me, 't is a soothing potion, For your stomach's sake; To reject what heaven has sent us Is to be non compos mentis -- How much aqua bullientis Will you take?" We fell on our knees with despairing cry, And prayed that for once he would pass us by, For we felt that should we that cocktail try, 'T would be our ruin. King Canute, 't is written on history's page, Endeavored the billows wild to cage -- 'T were easier task than restrain the Sage, Who still kept brewin'. While his happy gladsome singing, Set the hills and valleys ringing, We were kept "ingredients" bringing, Much against our will: Lagavulin, Angostura, Which he told us would ensure a Sound digestion, also cure a Sudden cold, or stop a chill. The hills re-echoed our solemn chant, "Te morituri salutant; Grant us some mercy, however scant, This awful hour!" But sterner and colder his visage grew, No pity, alas! the Patriarch knew; Hope shrieking fled as we watched him brew His cocktail sour. "Let none escape," was his dire command, "For I swear to-day, by my good right hand, That all who refuse their cocktail stand On death's cold brink." The Patriarch's awful accents fell On our frightened ears like a funeral knell, So bidding, each other a last farewell, We took our drink. The lusty salmon in vain may "rise," The merry troutlets may gaily play, But the green, green sward where our white tent lies Is good enough for us to-day. For we're tired -- so tired -- and weary too, As we sink into dreamy reverie, And we feel that our dreams are not all true. The world isn't just what it seems to be. The tides may ebb, and the tides may flow, And the river gleam in the valley below, But never again shall we fishing go, Till the Sage's hour Has come, -- and he goes to the golden shore, Where we trust he'll be happy for ever more, But we fear he may meet us at the door With a cocktail sour! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 3. HER WORDS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH THE BEAUTIFUL by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES MADRIGAL by WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN SNAKE by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE by CHRISTOPHER DARLINGTON MORLEY ALL HAIL TO THE CZAR! by ALFRED AUSTIN |