Although, when luxuries must be resigned,
    Such as cigars or even breakfast bacon,
  My hitherto “unconquerable mind”
    Its philosophic pose has not forsaken,
  By one impending sacrifice I find
    My stock of fortitude severely shaken—­
  I mean the dismal prospect of our losing
  The genial cup that cheers without bemusing.

  Blest liquor! dear to literary men,
    Which Georgian writers used to drink like fishes,
  When cocoa had not swum into their ken
    And coffee failed to satisfy all wishes;
  When tea was served to monarchs of the pen,
    Like JOHNSON and his coterie, in “dishes,”
  And came exclusively from far Cathay—­
  See “China’s fragrant herb” in WORDSWORTH’S lay.

  Beer prompted CALVERLEY’S immortal rhymes,
    Extolling it as utterly eupeptic;
  But on that point, in these exacting times,
    The weight of evidence supports the sceptic;
  Beer is not suitable for torrid climes
    Or if your tendency is cataleptic;
  But tea in moderation, freshly brewed,
  Was never by Sir ANDREW CLARK tabooed.

  We know for certain that the GRAND OLD MAN
    Drank tea at midnight with complete impunity,
  At least he long outlived the Psalmist’s span
    And from ill-health enjoyed a fine immunity;
  Besides, robust Antipodeans can
    And do drink tea at every opportunity;
  While only Stoics nowadays contrive
  To shun the cup that gilds the hour of five.

  But war is war, and when we have to face
    Shortage in tea as well as bread and boots
  ’Tis well to teach us how we may replace
    The foreign brew by native substitutes,
  Extracted from a vegetable base
    In various wholesome plants and herbs and fruits,
  “Arranged and blended,” very much like teas,
  To suit our “gastric idiosyncrasies.”

  It is a list for future use to file,
    Including woodruff, marjoram and sage,
  Thyme, agrimony, hyssop, camomile
    (A name writ painfully on childhood’s page),
  Tansy, the jaded palate to beguile,
    Horehound, laryngeal troubles to assuage,
  And, for a cup ere mounting to the stirrup,
  The stinging-nettle’s stimulating syrup.

  And yet I cannot, though I gladly would,
    Forget the Babylonian monarch’s cry,
  “It may be wholesome, but it is not good,”
    When grass became his only food supply;
  Such weakness ought, of course, to be withstood,
    But oh, it wrings the teardrop from my eye
  To think of Polly putting on the kettle
  To brew my daily dose of stinging-nettle!

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

“DEAR BRUTUS.”

There are great ways of borrowing, as EMERSON said, and in his new Fantasy Sir JAMES BARRIE has given us a very charming variation on A Midsummer Night’s Dream (with echoes of Peter Pan and The Admirable Crichton).  Certainly I got far more fun out of his deluded lovers in the Magic Wood than I ever extracted from the comedy of errors which occurred between the ladies and gentlemen of the Court of Theseus.