219 / 374
DRINKS.
2i'9
Was
once
Toby
Philpot,
a
thirsty
old
soul,
As
e'er
cracked
a
bottle,
or
fathom'd a
bowl;
In
bousing
about,
'twas
his
pride
to
excel.
And
amongst
jolly
topers
he
bore
off
the
bell.
It
chanced
as
in
dog-days
he
sat
at
his
ease,
In
his
flower-woven
arbour,
as
gay
as
you
please,
With
his
friend
and
a
pipe,
puffing
sorrow
away,
And
with
honest
Old
Stingo
sat
soaking
his
clay.
His
breath-doors
of
life
on
a
sudden
were
shut,
And
he
died
full
big
as
a
Dorchester
Butt.
His
body,
when
long
in
the
ground
it
had
lain.
And
time
into
clay
had
dissolved
it
again,
A
potter
found
out,
in
its
covert
so
snug,
And
with
part of
Fat
Toby
he
form'd
this
brown
jug
;
Now
sacred
to
friendship,
to
mirth,
and
mild
ale
So
here's
to
my
lovely
sweet
Nan
of
the
Vale."
Burton-on-Trent
may
be
termed
the
Metropolis
of
English
Beer,
and
there,
veritably,
**
Beer
is
King."
This
pre-eminence
is
attributed
to
the
quality
of
the
water,
which
seems
peculiarly
fitted
for
brewing
pur-
poses,
and
the
fact
that
the
large
brewers
there
located
use
none
but
the
finest
malt
and
hops
procurable.
There
is
an
old
saying,
that
wherever
an
Englishman
has
trodden,
and
where
has
he
not?
there
may
be
found
an
empty
beer
bottle.
And,
truly,
he
does
carry
the
taste
for
his
natural
beverage
wherever
he
goes,
and
the
export
trade
is
enormous,
every
ship
wanting
freight,
filling
up
with
bottled
beer,
as
a
safe
thing.
Fuller,
in
his
Worthies
of
England
(ed.
1662,
p.
115),
gives
his
account
of
the
origin
of
bottled
beer.
Speaking
of
Alexander
Nowell,
who
was
made
Dean
of
St.
Paul's
as
soon
as
Queen
Elizabeth
came