Thou still unravish'd bride of drunkenness,

Thou foster-child of slurring and slow talk,

Dublin historical, who helps us express

A bellicose mood, though we can barely walk:

What harp-stringed legend gleams upon thy shape

On glasses, or on bottles, or on cans

In Tavern, from St. James Gate Brewery?

What alcoholics these? What drinking fans?

Our dreary lives we struggle to escape

With stouts and porters. What mad ecstasy!