Go, bring me the goblet that maddens my soul:
Where the sulphate of copper lurks deep in the bowl;
Where the saccharine matter tastes richly intense,
And the brain-turning alcohol threatens the sense.
Deleterious acids, I laugh ye to scorn,
For one alkali kills ye, when taken at morn;
And I know that a towel tied wet round my brow,
May demolish the headache that hangs o’er me now.

No matter what vintage—no matter what name—
To the brave Bacchanalian all wines are the same:
For the best of Champagne and the mildest of Cape
Are alike manufactured from juice of the grape.

What matters it whether the North or the South
May have yielded its blood for the epicure’s mouth?
What matters it whether the East or the West
May have sent the rich fluid that gladdens this breast?

Amidst Burgundy’s hills or the plains of Bordeaux
May the national fruit long continue to grow.
May the art of fermenting improve day by day,
And the vatting take place in its usual way.
And, oh! may the heads of our State persevere
In their efforts to crush the rude stimulant, Beer,
By providing Great Britain the means to import
A superior claret at ninepence a quart!