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 drunk 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 prunello," Stale, flat, and musty. By thy side, Ale! Imperial Tokay Itself gives way; Sherry turns pale, And Port grows crusty. Rum, Whiskey, Hollands, seem so much sour crout: And Hodges' Mountain Dew turns out A mere Hodge- Podge. Of _bishops_ ev'n, god wot! I don't much like the flavour: Politically speaking, (but then, politics are not My trade,) Exception should be made In Doctor _Malt-by'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 a'n'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. Would I had lived in days of good Queen Bet, And her brave _déjeûners à la fourchette_! No days were e'er like hers, At whose gay board were ever seen to join Those two surpassing Sirs, Sir John, and famed Sir-loin. But stay! It's time to end this lay; Tho' I could go on rhyming for a year (And think it sport In praise of Beer); But many folks, I know, like _something short_. SO—OH!—LOGICAL SOCIETY.