10 Best Famous Ales Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Ales poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ales poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ales poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of ales poems.

• All Famous Ales Poems

 ‘TERENCE, this is stupid stuff: 
You eat your victuals fast enough; 
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear, 
To see the rate you drink your beer. 
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,  5
It gives a chap the belly-ache. 
The cow, the old cow, she is dead; 
It sleeps well, the horned head: 
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now.
To hear such tunes as killed the cow! 
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme 
Your friends to death before their time 
Moping melancholy mad! 
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad!" 

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, 
There's brisker pipes than poetry. 
Say, for what were hop-yards meant, 
Or why was Burton built on Trent? 
Oh many a peer of England brews 
Livelier liquor than the Muse, 
And malt does more than Milton can 
To justify God's ways to man. 
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink 
For fellows whom it hurts to think: 
Look into the pewter pot 
To see the world as the world's not. 
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past: 
The mischief is that 'twill not last. 
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair 
And left my necktie God knows where, 
And carried half way home, or near, 
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: 
Then the world seemed none so bad, 
And I myself a sterling lad; 
And down in lovely muck I've lain, 
Happy till I woke again. 
Then I saw the morning sky: 
Heigho, the tale was all a lie; 
The world, it was the old world yet, 
I was I, my things were wet, 
And nothing now remained to do 
But begin the game anew. 

Therefore, since the world has still 
Much good, but much less good than ill, 
And while the sun and moon endure 
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, 
I'd face it as a wise man would, 
And train for ill and not for good. 
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale 
Is not so brisk a brew as ale: 
Out of a stem that scored the hand 
I wrung it in a weary land. 
But take it: if the smack is sour, 
The better for the embittered hour; 
It should do good to heart and head 
When your soul is in my soul's stead; 
And I will friend you, if I may, 
In the dark and cloudy day. 

There was a king reigned in the East: 
There, when kings will sit to feast, 
They get their fill before they think 
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. 
He gathered all the springs to birth 
From the many-venomed earth; 
First a little, thence to more, 
He sampled all her killing store; 
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, 
Sate the king when healths went round. 
They put arsenic in his meat 
And stared aghast to watch him eat; 
They poured strychnine in his cup 
And shook to see him drink it up: 
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt: 
Them it was their poison hurt. 
--I tell the tale that I heard told. 
Mithridates, he died old.

 Said Statesman A to Statesman Z:
“What can we tax that is not paying?
We’re taxing every blessed thing—
Here’s what our people are defraying:

“Tariff tax, income tax,
Tax on retail sales,
Club tax, school tax,
Tax on beers and ales,

“City tax, county tax,
Tax on obligations,
War tax. wine tax,
Tax on corporations,

“Brewer tax, sewer tax,
Tax on motor cars,
Bond tax, stock tax,
Tax on liquor bars,

“Bridge tax, check tax,
Tax on drugs and pills,
Gas tax, ticket tax,
Tax on gifts in wills,

“Poll tax, dog tax,
Tax on money loaned,
State tax, road tax,
Tax on all things owned,

“Stamp tax, land tax,
Tax on wedding ring,
High tax, low tax,
Tax on everything!”

Said Statesman A to Statesman Z:
“That is the list, a pretty bevy;
No thing or act that is untaxed;
There’s nothing more on which to levy.”

Said Statesman Z to Statesman A:
“The deficit each moment waxes;
This is no time for us to fail—
We will decree a tax on taxes.”

 Voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
Voces antiguas que cercan
voz de clavel varonil.
Les clav? sobre las botas
mordiscos de jabal?.
En la lucha daba saltos
jabonados de delf?n.
Ba?o con sangre enemiga
su corbata carmes?,
pero eran cuatro pu?ales
y tuvo que sucumbir.
Cuando las estrellas clavan
rejones al agua gris,
cuando los erales sue?an
ver?nicas de alhel?,
voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.

Antonio Torres Heredia,
Camborio de dura crin,
moreno de verde luna,
voz de clavel varonil:
?qui?n te ha quitado la vida 
cerca del Guadalquivir?
Mis cuatro primos Heredias
hijos de Benamej?.
Lo que en otros no envidiaban,
ya lo envidiaban en m?.
Zapatos color corinto,
medallones de marfil,
y este cutis amasado
con aceituna y jazm?n.
?Ay Anto?ito el Camborio,
digno de una Emperatriz!
Acu?rate de la Virgen
porque te vas a morir.
?Ay Federico Garc?a,
llama a la Guardia Civil!
Ya mi talle se ha quebrado
como ca?a de ma?z.

Tres golpes de sangre tuvo
y se muri? de perfil.
Viva moneda que nunca
se volver? a repetir.
Un ?ngel marchoso pone
su cabeza en un coj?n.
Otros de rubor cansado,
encendieron un candil.
Y cuando los cuatro primos
llegan a Benamej?,
voces de muerte cesaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.

 Henry in trouble whirped out lonely whines.
When ich when was ever not in trouble?
But did he whip out whines
afore? And when check in wif ales & lifelines
anyone earlier O?-”Some, now, Mr Bones,
many.-”I am fleeing double:

Mr Past being no friends of mine,
all them around: Sir Future Dubious,
calamitous & grand:
I can no foothold here; wherefore I pines
for Dr Present, who won't thrive to us
hand over neither hand

from them blue depths nor choppering down skies
does Dr Present vault unto his task.
Henry is weft on his own.
Pluck Dr Present. Let his grievous wives
thrall lie to livey toads. May his chains bask.
lower him, Capt Owen, into the sun.