A BEER BOOST.

Well, as you’re so pressing, don’t mind if I do— What, a pint? Yes, a pint! I should smile at your query— There’s a wonderful balm in the cream of a brew For a soul that is fagged in a case that is weary. It beats all your juggling illusions a mile, Whilst it clear overshadows the magic of Moses, And it clothes the grey plains of existence awhile With the sunshine of spring and an odour of roses. A pint! I should guess—we’ll increase it to two— I will ne’er be a bigot where beer is in question, For if merely you take a sound practical view, It enhances the health and improves the digestion. It smoothes the deep lines from the forehead of care, Till your enemy looms in the light of a brother, And there’s peace—that strange peace that is lisped in the prayer Of the sleepy-eyed brat at the knee of his mother. The old world chips in, in the guise of a friend, As the solvent of hops humanises and mellows, And the limits of brotherhood stretch and extend Till the Devil himself seems the best of good fellows. Then bring me a glass, or a tankard, or tank— And the last, if permitted a voice in the choosing: For, in all the crimes’ calendar, none is so rank As the sin, the nigh obsolete sin, of refusing.