When sons of Bacchus

Fiercely attack us,

Lauding the majesty of Alcohol,

And, spite of Horsley,

Indulge quite coarsely

In panegyrics of dry Monopole—

For consolation

In our vexation

The news from Mexico we gladly hail,

Learning how Villa

Shuns Manzanilla

And only slakes his thirst with Adam's ale.

No wonder Wilson

The beer of Pilsen

Regards as liquid death within the pot,

When even a bandit

Can't stick or stand it,

And gibes at Huerta as an aged sot!

Let senile soakers

And jaded jokers

Their bottle-noses still incarnadine,

But we, with Villa,

Prefer Vanilla

Or Sarsaparilla to the choicest wine.

Port, brandy, sherry

Make idiots merry—

They're little use when civil wars begin;

Men who can slaughter

Upon barley-water

Are in the long run always bound to win.