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!”

This apparently artless oratory was beginning to have its effect.  Loud huzzas filled the hall.  These touching words had evoked wistful memories hidden deep in every heart.  Old wounds were reopened and bled afresh.

Again Quimbleton had to call for silence.

“I will recite to you,” he said, “a ditty that I have composed myself.  It is called A Chanty of Departed Spirits.”

In a voice tremulous with emotion he began: 

    The earth is grown puny and pallid,
     The earth is grown gouty and gray,
    For whiskey no longer is valid
     And wine has been voted away—­
    As for beer, we no longer will swill it
     In riotous rollicking spree;
    The little hot dogs in the skillet
     Will have to be sluiced down with tea.

    O ales that were creamy like lather! 
      O beers that were foamy like suds! 
    O fizz that I loved like a father! 
      O fie on the drinks that are duds! 
    I sat by the doors that were slatted
      And the stuff had a surf like the sea—­
    No vintage was anywhere vatted
      Too strong for ventripotent me!

    I wallowed in waves that were tidal,
      But yet I was never unmoored;
    And after the twentieth seidel
      My syllables still were assured. 
    I never was forced to cut cable
      And drift upon perilous shores,
    To get home I was perfectly able,
      Erect, or at least on all fours.

    Although I was often some swiller,
      I never was fuddled or blowsed;
    My hand was still firm on the tiller,
      No matter how deep I caroused;
    But now they have put an embargo
      On jazz-juice that tingles the spine,

    We can’t even cozen a cargo
      Of harmless old gooseberry wine!

    But no legislation can daunt us: 
      The drinks that we knew never die: 
    Their spirits will come back to haunt us
      And whimper and hover near by. 
    The spookists insist that communion
      Exists with the souls that we lose—­
    And so we may count on reunion
      With all that’s immortal of Booze.

    Those spirits we loved have departed
      To some psychical twentieth plane;
    But still we will not be downhearted,
      We’ll soon greet our loved ones again—­
    To lighten our drouth and our tedium
      Whenever our moments would sag,
    We’ll call in a spiritist medium
      And go on a psychical jag!