AN AMERICAN COCK-TALE

He was the man whom Dr. Snayle

Read a lecture to on a morning call —

Read it clear through from bill to tail;

And Bangs like Old Piety bore it all.

Said Snayle, when the sheets were all up-read,

“I’ m a-going with this to Boston, you know”—

“I’ m glad to hear it,” his listener said:

“I always did hate those Bostonians so!”

Well, last week on a City Atlas’ bus

The Professor and I went riding down,

While the driver politely gave to us

Opinions on things about the town.

And finding my friend was “prone to receive,”

And came from the Western land afar,

He told him just what one ought to believe

In politics, piety, love, and war.

Then glancing at Bangs, who sat to leeward,

Looking as mild as cambric tea,

He said: “I once’ ad — but I soon got cured

Of — a wish to go to Amerikee.

I was tired of always a-drivin’ these cusses,

And so I thought I would like to range”——

“You were right,” said Bangs. “In our Yankee’ busses

It’ s the driver who takes ( and keeps ) the change!”

Sharp glanced the driver at Bangs; then said,

“What scared me of goin’ was this, d’ ye see,—

I’ d a friend in New York, whose letters I read;

And he wrote: In the whole of your country,

He’ ad looked the biggest graveyards through,

Looked’ em through with uncommon keer,

But never’ ad come to a single view

Of a coveas wos aged fifty year.

“And as this is the case in hevery State,

I think there’ s nothink on hearth for cure’ n

A chap hof a fancy to hemigrate

Like readin’ of them graveyards of yourn.

So I thought I’ d rather perlong my breath,

Tho’ sometimes here a fellow they hangs”——

“You are right, my friend. Choose your own way of death,

I go in for that,” said Professor Bangs.

“But I see you have not understood

Why no aged person is ever found

Among us. We only want young blood

On our driving, thriving, Yankee ground.

Youth alone has the power to go it;

Old men are a drag on putting it through,

So we kill them off — and our tombstones show it —

Before they arrive at forty-two.”

Here the driver gave a long cher — rup!

And gazed at the Yankee, dark and wan,

As if he had woke the wrong passenger up

While calmly Professor Bangs went on:

“In walking up and down Broadway,

Large mourning sign-boards at times appear

With this inscription in letters grey —

‘ Elderly persons extinguished here.’

“And they put in your hand a pamphlet small,

Adapted to people of different stations,

Which cites the law, and exhorts them all

To dismiss in peace their old relations.

‘ Why let them linger in a vale,’

It states,‘ where often colds they catch?

Send them to us, and we’ ll end the tale

With politeness, humanity, and dispatch.’

“‘ N. B.— For those who would die by the trigger

We’ ve a merciful man who’ s a practised shot,

With an elegant room, and a careful nigger

To lay them genteelly out on the spot.

Our principal has a chemist of fame,

Whom he exclusively employs on

Those who set their checks on a different game

And like to pass to heaven by poison.’

“’ Tis thus the ladies generally choose it;

They love to die without pain or pangs

By a nice little globule — who could refuse it?

None but a man,” said Professor Bangs.

“A saw buck extra they always charge

For the stylish mode of extinguishing breath.

A saw buck’ s ten dollars. It’ s rather large,

But then it ensures you a cocktail death.”

“Vot may that be?” said the driver, meekly,

In the tone of a greatly altered man.

I observed that he seemed to be growing weakly

Since the Professor his story began.

“A cocktail’ s a tipple — America vaunts of it —

So flavoured, so foamy, so spiced, and whirled,

That he who can get as much as he wants of it

Very soon drinks himself out of the world.

“’ Tis said in the sky — right over Paris,

Where the American heaven is found,

Where everything brick-like and fast and rare is —

The cocks with tumblers for tails run round.

They cut to the bar for all things thinkable,—

All that is nice is a gratis boon,—

Then they come back with your favourite drinkable

And their sickle-feather’ s a silver spoon!

“But he who invented the cocktail brew is

The man before you. Thus came the hint:

I had once been kissing a pretty Jewess,

Who just before had been nibbling mint;

And in order to recall the taste

Which I found in pressing her luscious two lips,

I mingled brandy and mint, in haste,

With sugar and ice — and thus made Juleps.

“The first step was, therefore, the julep perfected,

Which gives us a menthal spirit of wine;

And finding myself thereby respected,

I sought to make bitter and sweet combine.

So I took of bitters aromatic

( I prefer the tincture of bark myself,

With orange flavoured, but if you lack it,

Try any kind on the bar-room shelf ).

“And I fixed them with sugar, and ice, and spirits,

In a silver tumbler, lightning-quick, sir,

Which I shook till all their several merits

Were combined in one subtle and strange elixir.

Then I passed it through a silver sieve

Kept carefully free from spot or rust;

And the final jimglorious touch to give,

I threw in a sprinkle of nutmeg-dust.

“And I am told by the spirit-rappers

That in the American Paris-heaven,

Though they’ ve fancy drinks which are total snappers,

There’ s nothing better than mine are given.

So they die in New York without any pangs,

For they know in the next world, to requite’ em,

They’ ll sit over Paris,” said Mr. Bangs,

“A-drinking cocktails ad infinitum.”

Here we got down, and the driver said,

“Vell, you’ re of the kind that will allers bang’ em!”

And turning our mocassins homeward, we sped

To that great American wigwam, the Langham.

Said Bangs, “O’ er my eyes there is drawn no wool.

That man has no heart who would tell you a mock tale;

But story for story I told to the Bull,

What I call a real American cocktail.”