One pint of mountain wine, one of Madeira, and one of Lisbon, one bottle of champagne, one liqueur-glass of pale brandy, three thin slices of lemon, sugar, nutmeg. Ice to taste.
One pound and a half of lump sugar in very large lumps, one bottle of Cognac, one bottle of sherry or Madeira, three bottles of Moselle or hock, one bottle of champagne, half a pound of blanched almonds, the thinly shred rind of four lemons, four peaches sliced, or one pine-apple or preserved fruit. These are the ingredients. Now to prepare the nectar. On a large well-tinned copper stewpan place a gridiron, and on the gridiron the big lumps of sugar. Pour by degrees the Cognac over the sugar, lighting it as you pour it on. The sugar dissolves through the bars of the gridiron, and the spirit is burnt out: this constitutes caramel. Next add the sherry and fruity materials, which allow to digest for fifteen minutes, after which pour in the Moselle, and transfer the compound into a bowl. On serving add a bottle of champagne. Serve round in flat champagne-glasses with a spoon to each for extracting the fruit. (_Cutler._)
Hail, beer! In all thy forms of Porter, Stingo, Stout, Swipes, Double X, Ale, Heavy, Out and Out, Most dear. Hail! thou that mak'st man's heart as big as Jove's, Of Ceres' gifts the best, That furnishest A cure for all our griefs, a barm for all our--loaves.
Oh! Sir John Barleycorn, thou glorious Knight of Malt-a, May thy fame never alter: Great Britain's Bacchus! pardon all our failings, And with thy Ale ease all our ailings. I've emptied many a barrel in my time-- And, may be, shall empty many more Before O'er the Styx I sail. E'en when an infant I was fond of Ale, A sort of Ale-y-baby, And still I love, in spite of gibes and jokes Of wine-ing folks. For Stout I've stoutly fought for many a year, For Ale I'll fight till I'm laid on my bier. October! oh, intoxicating name! no drink That e'er was made on earth can match with thee. Of best French brandy in the Palais Royal I've emptied many a phial, And think That double X beats O.D.V. On thy banks, Rhine, I've drank such wine As Bacchus' self might well unsober; But, oh! Johannisberg thy beams are shorn By our John Barleycorn, And Hock is not Hock-tober. As for the rest, Cape, Claret, Calcavella, They are but "leather and prunella," Stale, flat, and musty. By the side of Ale Imperial Tokay Itself gives way, Sherry turns pale, And Port grows crusty. Rum, Whisky, Hollands seem so much sour crout, And Hodges's Mountain-Dew turns out A mere Hodge-Podge. Of _Bishops_ e'en, god wot! I don't much like the flavour, Politically speaking (but, then, politics are not My trade); Exception should be made In Doctor _Maltby's_ favour. "In vino veritas" they say; but that's a fable, A most egregious blunder. I've been at many a wine-bibbing ere now, And vow, For one that told the truth across the table, I've seen a dozen _lying_ under. Besides, as old Sam Johnson said once, I've no patience With men who never tell the sober truth But when they're drunk, and aren't to be believed, forsooth, Except in their _lie_-bations. Oh! do not think, you who these praises hear, Don't think my muse be-mused with beer, Nor that in speaking thus my pleasure I go beyond beer measure. But stay, It's time to end this lay; Tho' I could go on rhyming for a year In praise of Beer, And think it sport; But many folks I know like something short.