Classic Poem

This day, this very day, gave birth
Not to the brightest Monarch upon earth,
  Because there are some brighter, and as big;
Who love the Arts that Men exalt to Heaven:
George loves them also, when they're given
  To four-legg'd Gentry, christened Dog and Pig,
Whose deeds in this our wonder-hunting Nation
Prove what a charming thing is education.

Full of the Art of Brewing Beer,
  The Monarch heard of Mister Whitbread's fame:
Quoth he unto the Queen, ‘My dear, my dear,
  Whitbread hath got a marvellous great name.
Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew;
Rich as us, Charly; richer than a Jew.
Shame, shame, we have not yet his Brewhouse seen.’—
Thus sweetly said the King unto the Queen.

Red-hot with Novelty's delightful rage,
To Mister Whitbread forth he sent a Page,
  To say that Majesty proposed to view,
With thirst of Knowledge deep inflamed,
His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed,
  And learn the noble secret, how to brew.

Of such undreamt of honour proud,
Most reverently the Brewer bow'd;
So humbly (so the humble story goes),
He touch'd e'en terra firma with his nose:
Then said unto the Page, hight Billy Ramus,
‘Happy are we that our great King should name us,
As worthy unto Majesty to shew
How we poor Chiswell people brew.’

Away sprung Billy Ramus, quick as Thought:
To Majesty the welcome tidings brought;
  How Whitbread staring stood like any Stake,
And trembled: then the civil things he said:
On which the King did smile, and nod his head;
  For Monarchs like to see their Subjects quake.

Such horrors unto Kings most pleasant are,
  Proclaiming reverence and humility;
High thoughts too all those shaking fits declare
  Of kingly Grandeur and great Capability.
People of worship, wealth, and birth,
Look on the humbler Sons of Earth
  Indeed in a most humble light, God knows.
High Stations are like Dover's towering Cliffs,
Where Ships below appear like little Skiffs;
  The People walking on the strand, like Crows.

Muse, sing the stir that Mister Whitbread made;
Poor gentleman, most terribly afraid
  He should not charm enough his Guests divine:
He gave his Maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks;
And, lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks,
  To make th' Apprentices and Draymen fine.

Busy as Horses in a field of clover,
Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over,
Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation
To treat the lofty Ruler of the Nation.

Now moved King, Queen, and Princesses, so grand,
To visit the first Brewer in the land;
Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat
In a snug corner christen'd Chiswell-street;
But oftener, charm'd with fashionable air,
Amidst the gaudy Great of Portman-square. . . .

Arrived, the King broad-grinn'd, and gave a nod
To Mister Whitbread; who, had God
  Come with his Angels to behold his beer,
With more respect he never could have met:
Indeed the man was in a sweat,
  So much the Brewer did the King revere.

Her Majesty contrived to make a dip:
Light as a Feather then the King did skip;
And ask'd a thousand Questions, with a laugh,
Before poor Whitbread comprehended half. . . .

Thus was the Brewhouse fill'd with gabbling noise,
While Draymen, and the Brewer's Boys,
  Devoured the Questions that the King did ask:
In different parties were they staring seen,
Wondering to think they saw a King and Queen;
  Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some Draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon)
Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon;
And through the bung-hole wink'd with curious eye,
To view, and be assured, what sort of things
Were Princesses, and Queens, and Kings,
For whose most lofty station thousands sigh.
And, lo! of all the gaping Puncheon clan,
Few were the Mouths that had not got a Man.

Now Majesty into a Pump so deep
Did with an opera-glass of Dollond peep,
Examining with care each wondrous matter
That brought up water.

  Thus have I seen a Magpie in the street,
  A chattering Bird we often meet,
A Bird for curiosity well known,
  With head awry,
  And cunning eye,
Peep knowingly into a Marrow-bone.

And now his curious Majesty did stoop,
To count the nails on every hoop;
And, lo! no single thing came in his way,
That, full of deep research, he did not say,
‘What's this? hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?’
So quick the words too, when he deign'd to speak,
As if each Syllable would break its Neck.

Thus, to the world of great while others crawl,
Our Sovereign peeps into the world of small :
Thus microscopic Geniuses explore
  Things that too oft provoke the public scorn;
Yet swell of useful knowledges the store,
  By finding Systems in a Pepper-corn.

Now Mister Whitbread serious did declare,
To make the Majesty of England stare,
That he had Butts enough, he knew,
Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew.
On which the King with wonder swiftly cried,

‘What if they reach to Kew then side by side,
  What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?’
To whom, with knitted calculating brow,
The Man of Beer most solemnly did vow,
  Almost to Windsor that they would extend.
On which the King, with wondering mien,
Repeated it unto the wondering Queen.

On which, quick turning round his halter'd head,
The Brewer's Horse with face astonish'd neigh'd;
The Brewer's Dog too pour'd a note of thunder,
Rattled his chain, and wagg'd his tail for wonder.

Now did the King for other Beers inquire,
For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire;
And, after talking of these different Beers,
Asked Whitbread if his Porter equall'd theirs.

This was a puzzling, disagreeing Question;
Grating like Arsenic on his Host's digestion:
A kind of question to the Man of Cask,
That not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now Majesty, alive to knowledge, took
A very pretty Memorandum-book,
With gilded leaves of asses' skin so white,
And in it legibly began to write:—

Memorandum

  A charming place beneath the Grates,
  For roasting Chestnuts or Potates.

Mem.

'Tis Hops that give a bitterness to Beer:
Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

Quaere

Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?
Would not Horse-aloes bitter it as well?

Mem.

To try it soon on our Small-beer;
'I will save us several pounds a year.

Mem.

To remember to forget to ask
Old Whitbread to my house one day.

Mem

Not to forget to take of Beer the Cask,
The Brewer offer'd me, away.—

Now having pencil'd his Remarks so shrewd,
  Sharp as the Point indeed of a new Pin;
His Majesty his watch most sagely view'd,
  And then put up his asses' skin.

To Whitbread now deign'd Majesty to say,
‘Whitbread, are all your Horses fond of Hay?’
‘Yes, please your Majesty,’ in humble notes
The Brewer answer'd: ‘also, Sir, of Oats.
Another thing my Horses too maintains;
And that, an't please your Majesty, are Grains.’

‘Grains, grains,’ said Majesty, ‘to fill their crops?
Grains, grains? That comes from hops; yes, hops, hops, hops.’

Here was the King, like Hounds sometimes, at fault.
  ‘Sire,’ cried the humble Brewer, ‘give me leave
  Your sacred Majesty to undeceive:
Grains, Sire, are never made from Hops, but Malt.’

‘True,’ said the cautious Monarch with a smile:
‘From malt, malt, malt: I meant malt all the while.’—
‘Yes,’ with the sweetest bow rejoined the Brewer,
‘An't please your Majesty, you did, I'm sure.’—
‘Yes,’ answered Majesty with quick reply,
‘I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I.’. . .

Now did the King admire the Bell so fine,
That daily asks the Draymen all to dine;
On which the Bell rung out (how very proper!)
To show it was a Bell, and had a Clapper.

And now before their Sovereign's curious eye,
  Parents and Children, fine fat hopeful sprigs,
All snuffing, squinting, grunting, in their sty,
  Appear'd the Brewer's tribe of handsome Pigs:
On which th' observant Man who fills a Throne,
Declared the Pigs were vastly like his own:
  On which the Brewer, swallówed up in joys,
  Tears and astonishment in both his eyes,
His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal,
  Exclaimed: ‘O Heavens! and can my Swine
  Be deemed by Majesty so fine?
Heavens! can my Pigs compare, Sire, with Pigs Royal?’
To which the King assented with a nod:
On which the Brewer bowed, and said, ‘Good God!’
Then wink'd significant on Miss,
Significant of wonder and of bliss;
  Who, bridling in her chin divine,
Cross'd her fair hands, a dear old Maid,
And then her lowest curtsey made
  For such high honour done her Father's Swine.

Now did his Majesty so gracious say
To Mister Whitbread, in his flying way,
  ‘Whitbread, d'ye nick th'Excisemen now and then?
‘Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade?
Hae, what? Miss Whitbread's still a Maid, a Maid?
  What, what's the matter with the Men?

‘D'ye hunt? hae hunt? No, no, you are too old.
  You'll be Lord May'r, Lord May'r one day;
Yes, yes, I've heard so; yes, yes, so I'm told:
  Don't, don't the fine for Sheriff pay;
I'll prick you every year, man, I declare:
Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes; you shall be Lord May'r.

‘Whitbread, d'ye keep a Coach, or job one, pray?
  Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best.
You put your liveries on the Draymen, hae?
  Hae, Whitbread, you have feather'd well your nest.
What, what's the price now, hae, of all your stock?
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?’

Now Whitbread inward said, ‘May I be curst
If I know what to answer first’;
  Then search'd his brains with ruminating eye:
But ere the Man of Malt an answer found,
Quick on his heel, lo, Majesty turn'd round,
  Skipp'd off, and baulk'd the pleasure of reply.—

Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong;
  From curiosity doth wisdom flow:
For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long,
  The more a man inquires, the more he'll know. . . .

Now having well employed his Royal lungs
On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels and their bungs,
The King and Co. sat down to a Collation
Of flesh, and fish, and fowl, of every Nation.

Dire was the clang of plates, of Knife and Fork,
That merciless fell like Tomahawks to work;
And fearless scalp'd the fowl, the fish, and cattle,
While Whitbread in the rear beheld the battle.

The conquering Monarch, stopping to take breath
Amidst the Regiments of Death,
  Now turn'd to Whitbread with complacence round,
And merry thus address'd the Man of Beer:
‘Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear
  You're of an ancient family renown'd.
What, what? I'm told that you're a limb
Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym:
What, Whitbread, is it true what people say?
Son of a Roundhead are you? hae, hae, hae?

‘I'm told that you send Bibles to your Votes,
  A snuffling Roundheaded Society;
Prayer-books, instead of Cash to buy them coats;
  Bunyans, and Practices of Piety:

‘Your Bedford Votes would wish to change their fare;
Rather see Cash—yes, yes—than Books of Pray'r.
Thirtieth of January don't you feed?
Yes, yes; you eat Calf's Head, you eat Calf's Head.’

Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish,
  Whole hosts o'erturn'd, and seized on all supplies;
The Royal Visitors express'd a wish
  To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes:

But first the Monarch, so polite,
Ask'd Mister Whitbread if he'd be a Knight—
  Unwilling in the list to be enroll'd,
Whitbread contemplated the Knights of Peg,
Then to his generous Sovereign made a leg,
And said, he was afraid he was too old.
He thank'd however his most gracious King,
For offering to make him such a Thing. . . .

  Now from the table with Cesarean air
Up rose the Monarch with his laurel'd brow;
  When Mister Whitbread, waiting on his chair,
Express'd much thanks, much joy, and made a Bow.

Miss Whitbread now so quick her Curtseys drops,
Thick as her honour'd Father's Kentish Hops:
Which hop-like curtseys were return'd by Dips
That never hurt the Royal knees and hips;
  For hips and knees of Queens are sacred things,
That only bend on gala days
  Before the Best of Kings,
When Odes of Triumph sound his praise.

Now through a thundering peal of kind Huzzas,
Proceeding some from hired and unhired jaws,
  The Raree-show thought proper to retire;
While Whitbread and his Daughter fair
Survey'd all Chiswell-street with lofty air,
  For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher. . . .

Now God preserve all wonder-hunting Kings,
  Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house;
And may they never do more foolish things
  Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his Brewhouse!