Now, settled in this island-city, We let new fashions have their weight; Though none too lucky—more’s the pity!— Can still beguile our humble state By finding time to come together, In every season of the year, In sunny, wet, or windy weather, And clink our mugs of Lager Bier. On winter evenings, cold and blowing, ’Tis good to order “’alf-and-’alf”; To watch the fire-lit pewter glowing, And laugh a hearty English laugh; Or even a sip of mountain whiskey Can raise a hundred phantoms dear Of days when boyish blood was frisky, And no one heard of Lager Bier. We’ve smoked in summer with Oscanyan, Cross-legged in that defunct bazaar, Until above our heads the banyan Or palm-tree seemed to spread afar; And, then and there, have drunk his sherbet, Tinct with the roses of Cashmere: That Orient calm! who would disturb it With Norseland calls for Lager Bier? There’s Paris chocolate,—nothing sweeter, At midnight, when the dying strain, Just warbled by La Favorita, Still hugs the music-haunted brain; Yet of all bibulous compoundings, Extracts or brewings, mixed or clear, The best, in substance and surroundings, For frequent use, is Lager Bier. Karl Schæffer is a stalwart brewer, Who has above his vaults a hall, Where—fresh-tapped, foaming, cool, and pure— He serves the nectar out to all. Tom Harland, have you any money? Why, then, we’ll leave this hemisphere, This western land of milk and honey, For one that flows with Lager Bier. Go, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed maiden, My German Hebe! hasten through Yon smoke-cloud, and return thou laden With bread and cheese and bier for two. Limburger suits this bearded fellow; His brow is high, his taste severe: But I’m for Schweitzer, mild and yellow, To eat with bread and Lager Bier. Ah, yes! the Schweitzer hath a savor Of marjoram and mountain thyme, An odoriferous, Alpine flavor; You almost hear the cow-bells chime While eating it, or, dying faintly, The _Ranz-des-vaches_ entrance the ear, Until you feel quite Swiss and saintly, Above your glass of Lager Bier. Here comes our drink, froth-crowned and sunlit, In goblets with high-curving arms, Drawn from a newly opened runlet, As bier must be, to have its charms. This primal portion each shall swallow At one draught, for a pioneer; And thus a ritual usage follow Of all who honor Lager Bier. Glass after glass in due succession, Till, borne through midriff, heart, and brain, He mounts his throne and takes possession,— The genial Spirit of the grain! Then comes the old Berserker madness To make each man a priest and seer, And, with a Scandinavian gladness, Drink deeper draughts of Lager Bier!