Oh, in truth, it gladdens the heart to see What may spring from the Ale of Trinitie,— A scholar—a fellow,—a rector blithe, (Fit to take any amount of tithe)— Perhaps a bishop—perhaps, by grace, One may mount to the Archiepiscopal place, And wield the crosier, an awful thing, The envy of all, and—the parsons’ King! O Jove! who would struggle with learning pale, That could beat down the world by the strength of Ale! For _me_,—I avow, could my thoughtless prime Come back with the wisdom of mournful time, I’d labour—I’d toil—by night and day, (Mixing liquors and books away,) Till I conquer’d that high and proud degree, M. A. (Master of Ale) of Trinitie.[48]
[48] A Panegyric on Ale addressed to W. L. Birkbeck, Esq., by Barry Cornwall.
Brasenose College, Oxford, has long been noted for its ale. As each Shrovetide comes round, the college butler, as a condition of the tenure of his office, presents a barrel of the strongest nappy, and celebrates the event in verse, handing on to generations yet unborn the name and fame of the Brasenose brew. The earlier of these ale poems, which are in reality the effusions of some poetical undergraduate, had a fleeting existence, but some years ago Mr. Prior, who was then and still continues, { 166} the butler of the College, published a collection of them in a small volume, entitled _Brasenose Ale_. In his little book, which we commend to the perusal of all good ale-knights, occur the following lines, written by R. J. B., in 1835:—
Lo! Prior hastens with his motley crew, To pour the foaming liquor to our view: Clasps his firm hand in all a Butler’s pride The cup no Brasenose Fellow e’er denied: Yet secret triumph o’er his brow has cast That Ale the sweetest, as that brew the last! “Away, ye lighter drinks! ye swipes, away, Where masters bully, and where boys obey,” The brewer cried; and taught the Ale to live With all the charms that malt and hops could give. Warm’d at his touch, behold the vapours rise In all their genuine fragrance to the skies: No beer-shops bev’rage, such as Cockneys buy, Foul to the taste, and loathsome to the eye; No dingy mixture, vulgarly call’d swipes; No quassia juice, promoter of the gripes; But true proportions of good hops and malt, Mingled with care, then stow’d within the vault: The hue that tells its potency—the scent That breathes as if from blest Arabia sent. Still o’er his Ale fond Prior hangs confest, And joy and triumph swell his manly breast. * * * * * Such, glorious liquor of the olden time, When to be drunk with Ale was deem’d no crime; When in the morn and eve and mid-day stood Upon our fathers’ boards old English food; Such hast thou been, ’mid war and change the same, Link’d with the poet’s and the scholar’s name, Mellow’d by age—but still with flavour higher, The pride of Brasenose, and the boast of Prior.