Classic Poem

I care not a fig for a flagon of flip
Or a whistling can of rumbo;
But my tongue through whisky-punch will slip
As nimble as Hurlothrumbo
So put the spirits on the board,
And give the lemons a squeezer,
And we'll mix a jorum, by the Lord!
That will make your worship sneeze, sir.

The French, no doubt, are famous souls,
I love them for their brandy;
In rum and sweet tobacco rolls
Jamaica men are handy.
The big-breeched Dutch in juniper gin,
I own are very knowing;
But are rum, gin, brandy worth a pin,
Compared with Inishowen?

Though here with a lord 'tis jolly and fine,
To tumble down Lachryma Christi,
And over a skin of Italy's wine
To get a little misty.
Yet not the blood of the Bordeaux grape,
The finest grape juice going,
Nor clammy Constania, the pride of the Cape,
Prefer I to Inishowen.