I care not a fig for a flagon of flip, Or a whistling can of rumbo; But my tongue through whiskey-punch will slip As nimble as Hurlothrumbo. So put the spirits on the board, And give the lemons a squeezer, And we'll mix a jorum, by the Lord! That will make your worship sneeze, sir. The French, no doubt, are famous souls, I love them for their brandy; In rum and sweet tobacco-rolls Jamaica men are handy. The big-breeched Dutch in juniper gin, I own, are very knowing; But are rum, gin, brandy worth a pin Compared with Inishowen? Though here with a lord 'tis folly and fine To tumble down Lachryma Christi, And over a skin of Italy's wine To get a little misty; Yet not the blood of the Bordeaux grape, The finest grape-juice going, Nor clammy Constantia, the pride of the Cape, Prefer I to Inishowen. |