There
came a lonely Briton to the town, A
solitary Briton with a mission,
He'd vowed a vow to put all "shouting" down, To
relegate it to a low position.
Transcendently
Britannic in his dress, His
manners were polite, and slightly formal;
And - this I mention with extreme distress - His
"put away for liquid was abnormal.
He viewed
this "shouting" mania with disgust, As
being generosity perverted,
When any of the "boys" went on the bust He
strove his best that they might be converted.
He
wouldn't take a liquor with a man, Not
if he was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered,
And yet, he drank - construe it as you can - Unsweetened
gin, most moderately watered.
And when
the atmosphere was in a whirl, And
language metaphorical ran riot,
He'd calmly tender sixpence to the girl, And
drink his poison - solus - nice and quiet.
Whenever
he was asked to breast the bar He'd
answer, with a touch of condescension:
"I much regret to disoblige so far As
to decline your delicate attention.
"That
drink's a curse that hangeth like a leech - A
sad but most indubitable fact is,
Mankind was meant to drink alone, I preach, And
what I preach invariably practise.
"I
never pay for others, nor do I Take
drink from them, and never, never would, sir -
One man, one liquor! though I have to die A
martyr to my faith - that's Jimmy Wood, sir.
"My
friend, 'tis not a bit of use to raise A
hurricane of bluster and of banter:
I preach my humble gospel in the phrase, Similia
similibus curantur;
"Which
means: by drinking how and when I like, And
sticking to the one unsweetened sample,
I hope in course of time that it will strike All
men to follow up my good example."
In course
of time it struck all men that Jim Was
fast developing into a soaker -
The breath of palsy on his every limb, A
bleary face touched up with crimson ochre.
Yet
firmly stood he by the sinking ship, Went
down at last with all his colours flying;
No hand but his raised tumbler to his lip, What
time J. Woods, the Martyr, lay a-dying.
Misunderstood
reformer! gallant heart! He
gave his path to Death - the great collector.
Now. . . in Elysian fields he
sits apart And
sips his modest “Tommy Dodd” of nectar.
His
signature is on the scroll of fame, You
cannot well forget him, though you would, sir,
The man is dead, not so his homely name, Who
drinks alone - drinks toast to Jimmy Wood, sir.
