Volume 93 — THE GREAT THIRST LAND.

Why, in this clever age, So "point-device," Is there no beverage Cool, cheap, and nice? It's safe to rile ye, Dog-days being here, When you're charged highly For iced ginger-beer. Who can be placid When sixpence is paid For sweet citric acid Dubbed lemonade? Is there no substitute Which we may quaff For tea with milk dilute, Or shandy-gaff? A sheer abuse is Ice joined to beer; Our gastric juices Hate it, and fear; Half-pint-partakers, When weather's hot, Barons or bakers, All go to pot. Should spirits tempt you, Need it be said Nought can exempt you From a racked head, Just like poor Sisera? Soda's a snare? Milk clogs the viscera; Of "fizz" beware! Brandy each new nipper Maketh go mad; Juice of the juniper, You're berry bad! Now that so many men Counsel "Abstain!" It's rum that any men Drink to their bane. In this heat tropical, He's a true friend Who, philanthropical, Bids our thirst end. Will no inventor Try a new shot? Here our hopes centre: Who is our Watt? Our British livers Don't care a rap For "corpse-revivers,"— A nauseous tap! Drink for the Million! Nor dear or heady; Bring me a chilly one— But none is ready!