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!