Volume 25 — THE LOVER'S FAREWELL TO PALE ALE.

Farewell, my bright, my brisk, my Pale, I cannot say, my Sweet, For thou art Bitter, oh, my Ale! With Hops—I trust—replete.

Henceforth thou art estranged from me; And dost thou ask me why? Thou wilt not suit my low degree, Since thou hast got so high.

It was not wise to raise thee so, 'Tis what thou wilt not bear: Better, hadst thou been brought more low, And made "not Pale but Fair."

Go, travel o'er the Ocean brine, To grace some Nabob's cup; Thy figure will not do for mine, So I must give thee up.

With chamomile the goblet fill, The cold infusion pour, I'll quaff the dose, the draught I'll swill, And sigh for thee no more!