WHEN as the chill Charokko blows, And Winter tells a heavy tale; When pyes and daws and rooks and crows Sit cursing of the frosts and snows; Then give me ale. Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, Such as will make grimalkin prate; Bids valour burgeon in tall men, Quickens the poet's wit and pen, Despises fate. Ale, that the absent battle fights, And frames the march of Swedish drum, Disputes with princes, laws, and rights, What 's done and past tells mortal wights, And what 's to come. Ale, that the plowman's heart up-keeps And equals it with tyrants' thrones, That wipes the eye that over-weeps, And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps Th' o'er-wearied bones. Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter, Wine's emulous neighbour, though but stale, Ennobling all the nymphs of water, And filling each man's heart with laughter -- Ha! give me ale! |