While The Billy BoilsSearchBREWERS v. PUBLICANS.The day was wet, down poured the rainIn torrents from the sky;Great coats, umbrellas, were in vain,But every lip was dry.
The clouds seemed disinclined to part,The wind was from the West,Yet worked each brewer's manly heartLike (y) east within his breast.
Along the road each brewer spentHis coin in frequent drains,F or mere external moisture wentAgainst those brewers' grains.
And with a bright triumphant flush,Their Captain, Mr. Staves,Swore they should crush those sons of lushWho dealt in "tidal-waves"
* Tidal-wave—a large glass of colonial beer.For, speaking of the L. V. A.,*The brewers said, and laughed,"A most efficient team were theyFor purposes of draught."'Twas thus they talked upon the wayUntil they reached the ground;But in their friends the L. V. A.,Rum customers they found.
I havn't space to speak of allThe glories of the match—Of every well-delivered ball,And every well-caught catch.
I fain would tell of Mr. Keggs(They spiled and bunged his eye)Of Barley-corn, and how his legsGot twisted all a rye;
How Stoups, the umpire, stood too near,And came to grief and harm;How, when he fell they gave him beer,Which acted like a barm;
* Licensed Victuallers' Association.Of Hope, who keeps the Anchor barAnd vendeth flowing bowls(My feet have often been that farAnd anchored fast their soles)
Mark how he bustles, snorts, and spits—His brow he mops and wipes,And though I couldn't praise his hits,I'll gladly praise his "swipes;"
Of Corks, who funked the second ball,And by a sudden turnReceived the straightest one of allUpon his ample stern.
He raised a loud and fearful roar—With fury he was blind,And, though they called it "leg-before"He felt it most behind!
Of Marks, the scorer—best of men!Sure everybody talks;He chalked the runs correctly whenHe couldn't walk his chalks.
Despite the flasks of monstrous sizeHe'd emptied to the dregs,He scored "wides," "overthrows," "leg-byes,"And runs attained by legs.
For all the ceaseless rain which flows,The rival teams care naught;Though runs were made by many a nose,And many a cold was caught.
Inside and out they all got wet—Each drank what he could hold;I'm sure a bowl was oversetFor every over bowled.
The daylight fails; at length 'tis gone:There's little left to tell;For as the shades of eve drew onThe stumps were drawn as well.
Then to the tent each man resorts:On food intent were they.Who won the sports? the pints and quarts—The gallant L. V. A.
Beneath the canvas let us pass—Old Bottle-brush was there,And well he filled his empty glass,And well he filled the "chair."
At length the Maltsters cleared the tent,And several hops ensued;But stay! Both time and space are spent—In truth, I must conclude.
A vict'ler rose amid the host—A burly man was he—"My lads," he said, "I'll give a toast,And here's my toast d'ye see:
"John Barley-corn, the king of seeds!"And round the glasses go,"For that's a corn that ne'er impedesThe light fantastic toe!"