Corks as sound as chastity;--
Years shall not impair the merit
Of the lively, gentle spirit.

Babylon's Sardanapalus,
Rome's youngster Heliogabalus,
Or that empurpled paunch, Vitellius,
So famed for appetite rebellious--
Ne'er, in all their vastly reign,
Such a bowl as this could drain.
Hark, the shade of old Apicius
Heaves his head, and cries--Delicious!
Mad of its flavour and its strength--he
Pronounces it the real Nepenthe.

'Tis the Punch, so clear and bland,
Named of Norfolk's fertile land,
Land of Turkeys, land of Coke,
Who late assumed the nuptial yoke--
Like his county beverage,
Growing brisk and stout with age.
Joy I wish--although a Tory--
To a Whig, so gay and hoary--
May he, to his latest hour,
Flourish in his bridal bower--
Find wedded love no Poet's fiction,
And Punch the only contradiction.

_Blackwood's Magazine._