goblet, how it caught the light, how merrily it twinkled with
beaded bubbles winking at the brim, as some poet has observed. If
I wanted to harrow you, gentlemen, I would recall to you little
tables, little round tables, set out under the trees on the lawn
of some country inn, where the enchanting music of harp and fiddle
twangled on the summer air, where great bowls of punch chimed
gently as the lumps of ice knocked on the thin crystal. The little
tables were spread tinder the trees, and then, later on, perhaps,
the customers were spread under the tables.--I would ask you to
recall the manly seidel of dark beer as you knew it, the bitter
chill of it as it went down, the simple felicity it induced in the
care-burdened mind. I could quote to you poet after poet who has
nourished his song upon honest malt liquor. I need only think of
Mr. Masefield, who has put these manly words in the mouth of his
pirate mate:

Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some
are fond of French,
And some'll swallow tea and stuff fit only for
a wench,
But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the
bench!

Oh some are fond of fiddles and a song well
sung,
And some are all for music for to lilt upon the
tongue;
But mouths were made for tankards, and for
sucking at the bung!"