Jimmy Wood

There came a lonely Briton to the town,     A solitary Briton with a mission,     Hed 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 wouldnt 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,     Hed calmly tender sixpence to the girl,     And drink his poison, solus, nice and quiet.     Whenever he was asked to breast the bar     Hed answer, with a touch of condescension:     I much regret to disoblige so far     As to decline your delicate attention.     That drinks 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, thats 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.