George Ade

Somehow I always like to think
Of GEORGEADE as a Summer Drink,
Sparkling and cool, with just a Tang
Of Pleasant Effervescent Slang;
A Wholesome Tonic, without question,
And Cure for Moral Indigestion.
In Summer-time, beneath the shade,
We find Refreshment in GEORGEADE.
And 'mid the Scorching City's roar
We drink him up and call for more.
I often wonder what the "Trade"
Buys half so precious as GEORGEADE.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

The Moon

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Arnold Bennett

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Mongoos.

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Shakespeare

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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The "Medical Spring."

I.

Let tipplers all boast of the pleasure divine
That is found in old whisky, in beer and in wine--
But what are all those to a feller who knows
Where the "Medical Spring" in its purity flows,
And has knelt at its brink and just drank his fill
Of the clear, sparkling fluid, from Nature's own still?


II.

How often I've strayed on a hot Summer's day
Where it gurgles and gushes, then flows on its way
With a ripple as sweet as the music that died
When the tones of loved voices are to us denied,
And mirrored my face in the "Medical Spring,"
Where the beetling old cliffs their cool shadows fling!


III.

Not riches, nor honors, nor place do I crave,
Ere they lay me at last to rest in the grave,
But oh, let me hear its music...

George W. Doneghy

The Lost Drink

I had spent the night in the watch-house,
My head was the size of three,
So I went and asked the chemist
To fix up a drink for me;
And he brewed it from various bottles
With soda and plenty of ice,
With something that smelt like lemon,
And something that seemed like spice.

It fell on my parching palate
Like the dew on a sunbaked plain,
And my system began to flourish
Like the grass in the soft spring rain;
It wandered throughout my being,
Suffusing my soul with rest,
And I felt as I "scoffed" that liquid
That life had a new-found zest.

I have been on the razzle-dazzle
Full many a time since then
But I never could get the chemist
To brew me that drink again.
He says he's forgotten the notion,
'Twas only by chance it came,

Andrew Barton Paterson

Ode For A Social Meeting

With Slight Alterations By A Teetotaler - (...)

Come! fill a fresh bumper, for why should we go
While the nectar (logwood) still reddens our cups as they flow?
Pour out the rich juices (decoction) still bright with the sun,
Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies (dye-stuff) shall run.

The    purple-globed clusters (half-ripened apples) their life-dews have bled;
How sweet is the breath (taste) of the fragrance they shed!(sugar of lead)
For summer's last roses (rank poisons) lie hid in the wines (wines!!!)
That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the vines (stable-boys smoking long-nines)

Then a smile (scowl) and a glass (howl) and a toast (scoff) and a cheer (sneer);
For all the good wine, and we 've some of it here! (strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and be...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

An Invitation To Mæcenas

Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask
Of wine solicits your attention;
And roses fair, to deck your hair,
And things too numerous to mention.
So tear yourself awhile away
From urban turmoil, pride, and splendor,
And deign to share what humble fare
And sumptuous fellowship I tender.
The sweet content retirement brings
Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings.

The evil planets have combined
To make the weather hot and hotter;
By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams
Vainly of ice-cream soda-water.
And meanwhile you, defying heat,
With patriotic ardor ponder
On what old Rome essays at home,
And what her heathen do out yonder.
Mæcenas, no such vain alarm
Disturbs the quiet of this farm!

God in His providence obscures
The goal beyond...

Eugene Field

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

A Draught Of Sunshine

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
Away with old Hock and madeira,
Too earthly ye are for my sport;
There's a beverage brighter and clearer.
Instead of a piriful rummer,
My wine overbrims a whole summer;
My bowl is the sky,
And I drink at my eye,
Till I feel in the brain
A Delphian pain
Then follow, my Caius! then follow:
On the green of the hill
We will drink our fill
Of golden sunshine,
Till our brains intertwine
With the glory and grace of Apollo!
God of the Meridian,
And of the East and West,
To thee my soul is flown,
And my body is earthward press'd.
It is an awful mission,
A terrible division;
And leaves a gulph austere
To be fill'd with worldly fear.
Aye, when the soul is fled
To high above our head,
Affr...

John Keats