Drinking

The Frenchman loves his native wine;
    The German loves his beer;
The Englishman loves his 'alf and 'alf,
    Because it brings good cheer;
The Irishman loves his "whiskey straight,"
    Because it gives him dizziness;
The American has no choice at all,
    So he drinks the whole blamed business.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCCXIX. Games.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXXI. Jingles.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DXCV. Accumulative Stories.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DXCIX. Local.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Drinking

Here's to the girls of the American shore,
I love but one, I love no more,
Since she's not here to drink her part,
I'll drink her share with all my heart.

Unknown

Nationality In Drinks

I.

My heart sank with our Claret-flask,
Just now, beneath the heavy sedges
That serve this Ponds black face for mask
And still at yonder broken edges
Of the hole, where up the bubbles glisten,
After my heart I look and listen.

II.

Our laughing little flask, compelled
Thro depth to depth more bleak and shady;
As when, both arms beside her held,
Feet straightened out, some gay French lady
Is caught up from Lifes light and motion,
And dropped into Deaths silent ocean!



Up jumped Tokay on our table,
Like a pygmy castle-warder,
Dwarfish to see, but stout and able,
Arms and accoutrements all in order;
And fierce he looked North, then, wheeling South,
Blew with his bugle a challenge to Drouth,
Cocked his flap...

Robert Browning

The Foreign Drunk

When you get tight in foreign lands
You never need go slinking,
No female neighbours lift their hands
And say The brute!, hes drinking!
No mischief-maker runs with smiles
To give your wife a notion,
For she may be ten thousand miles
Across the bounding ocean.

Oh! Ive been Scottish fu all night,
(Oer ills o life victorious),
And Ive been Dutch and German tight,
And French and Dago glorious.
We saw no boa-constrictors then,
In every ladys boa,
Though we got drunk with Antwerp men,
And woke up in Genoa!

When you get tight in foreign lands,
All foreigners are brothers,
You drink their drink and grasp their hands
And never wish for others.
Their foreign ways and foreign songs,
And girls, you take delight in:
The w...

Henry Lawson

Beer.

In those old days which poets say were golden -
(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:
And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden
To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
Who talk to me "in language quaint and olden"
Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their t...

Charles Stuart Calverley

In a Wine Cellar

See how it flashes,
This grape-blood fine!
Our beards it splashes,
O comrade mine!
Life dust and ashes
Were, wanting wine.

Amontillado
Fires heart and eyes;
Champagne the shadow
Of care defies;
An El Dorado
In Rhine-wine lies;

Port has the mintage
Of generous deeds;
Tokay scorns stintage
And richly bleeds;
But this great vintage
The Wine-March leads.

Yet it is wanting
In poesy;
No legends haunting
Its vassals be,
No tales enchanting
Of chivalry.

Spains grape hath stories;
Its blood the bold
Conquistadores
Drank deep of old,
A wine of glories,
A wine of gold.

Who drinks not sparing,
Beholdeth he
The great Cid bearing
His banner free,
Columbus...

Victor James Daley

Der Mann Im Keller

How cool and fair this cellar where
My throne a dusky cask is;
To do no thing but just to sing
And drown the time my task is.
The cooper he's
Resolved to please,
And, answering to my winking,
He fills me up
Cup after cup
For drinking, drinking, drinking.

Begrudge me not
This cosy spot
In which I am reclining--
Why, who would burst
With envious thirst,
When he can live by wining.
A roseate hue seems to imbue
The world on which I'm blinking;
My fellow-men--I love them when
I'm drinking, drinking, drinking.

And yet I think, the more I drink,
It's more and more I pine for--
Oh, such as I (forever dry)
God made this land of Rhine for;
And there is bliss
In knowing this,
As to the floor I'm sinking:
...

Eugene Field