Recently in Alcohol and Drinking Category

It was a bet 'twixt Brown and Jones.
   Brown blatantly made claim
That he could order twenty beers
   And never speak the name.

It was included in the bet
   That never twice should he
Use any phrase. Conditions set,
   We started on the spree.

Commencing, Brown bespoke "A pot,"
   And, next, "The same," he said:
Then "Ditto"; and, to get a fourth,
   "This time a bit more head."

Then Jones protested, stating we
   From bar to bar should run:
"The same" and "ditto" was not fair.
   We scored the four as one.

Thence, passing on to other bars,
   Brown ordered, first, "A mug,"
And then "A pint," "Some amber juice,"
   "Your nearest to a jug."

"Just something long and cool and wet,"
   "A trifle from the cask,"
"A schooner," and, to get the ninth,
   "A quart is all I ask."

And then he sought "A Tommy Dodd,"
   "A little with a dash
Of gingerbeer," "A simple glass,"
   "Your best for threepence, cash."

"Some yellow stuff," "A length of froth."
   "A hop-juice," "Drunkard's tea,"
And striking then a pub we knew:
   "The usual thing for me."

"A mead of stagger," then he craved;
   And with "A pony one,"
He smiled triumphantly at Jones,
   Claiming the deed as done.

Though Smith depreciated it --
   He said the name of beer
Had not at all been touched by Brown --
   The others raised a cheer.

And though old Brown inclined to doubt
   The deed as finished yet,
We promptly settled down to drink
   The ten rounds of the bet.

First published in The Bulletin, 21 October 1915

Author: Harold Bayley was born in Kelvin Grove, Queensland, in 1882 and took the name Harold Mercer after his mother divorced in 1893.  He was a chess prodigy as a child and began writing poetry at the age of 15.  He took up acting but left that role when he married in 1905.  Heavily involved in the union movement in Australia he helped set up 28 new unions.  He was appointed to the Sydney Morning Herald on the basis of his knowledge of labour affairs.  Mercer served in the AIF in France, was invalided out and returned to Australia where he worked in journalism and magazine publishing.  He died in Bondi, New South Wales, in 1952.

Author reference sites: Austlit

I ride no more in the Drunks' Express,
   Where travellers howl and rave;
I lie no more as a nasty mess
   Of scraps on the morning pave;
I don't go home in the dawn's grey light
   With yells and a drunked song;
I take no part in a drunken fight,
   Or anything else that's wrong.

I ride no more in the seaside train,
   With chaps for a gay weekend;
I float no more through the window-pane,
   Which somebody's got to mend;
My claws don't fall on the ladies' hats,
   Nor my tail on someone's knee;
My innards have given up spoiling spats
   Of passengers next to me.

I lie no more in splashes of beer,
   'Mid splinters of broken glass;
I'm followed no more by "Johns" severe,
  Nor warned by curates who pass.
I cause no rows in the Dago shops
   With "blokes on a bonzer spree";
And I don't make Dagoes send for the "cops"
   To settle the price of me.

I don't go home in the black coat-tails
   Of gentlemen slightly tight;
And I don't affront the grim females
   I used to offend at night;
I lie no more on the carpet neat,
   Nor rest on the counterpane;
I do not damage the parler suite
   With my claw or my ribald stain.

I've come to the end of festive night
   And trips in a Drunks' Express;
I won't see any more wondrous sights
   Of the midnight wickedness;
I'll be no more what I used to be,
   For all it's passed away --
The early-closing of pubs, you see,
   Has made me a wowser cray.

First published in The Bulletin, 26 August 1915

Author: Harold Frederick Neville Gye (1887-1967) was born in Ryde, New South Wales, and is primarily known as the illustrator of C.J. Dennis's works such as The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke.  Gye moved to Melbourne with his family at the age of 12 and became a law clerk before finding that he could make a living from his drawing.  He produced work for many magazines such as The Bulletin, The Gadfly, Punch and The Lone Hand as well as numerous newspapers.  He also wrote a number of poems and short stories, mainly published in The Bulletin.  He died in Beaumaris in Victoria in 1967.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

It has been discovered that a number of drinking men intend to vote dry at the forthcoming liquor poll, while many teetotallers are voting against No-Licence.

If one should say: "For many a day
   From alcohol I abstained
Because I think, in taking drink,
   For me, there's nothing to be gained."

And if he say: "Tho' others may
   Indulge in liquor now and then,
And find it good; think not I should
   Hold liberty from other men."

The chosen plan of such a man
   I find not hard to comprehend.
He may give up, himself, the cup,
   Yet not deny it to a friend.

No Pharisee to scold and fret
   I find in him, nor wonder why
A man, politically wet,
   May still be personally dry.

But if one say: "Take drink away!
   For, lo, my brother is a sot!
Tho', for myself I keep a shelf
   Within my cupboard for a 'spot.'

"For I am strong.  I see no wrong
   In holding from another's reach
This baneful stuff.  While I've enough
   Why should I practise what I preach?"

Such man I cannot understand,
   Now what his aim, nor what his end,
Who for himself one law has planned,
   But quite another for his friend.

May be that I am dull; but I
   Have never comprehended yet
How one, politically dry,
   Can still be personally wet.

First published in The Herald, 26 March 1930

Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Let us cease our idle chatter,
   Let the tears bedew our cheek,
For a man from Tallangatta
   Has been missing for a week.

Where the roaring flooded Murray
   Covered all the lower land,
There he started in a hurry,
   With a bottle in his hand.

And his fate is hid for ever,
   But the public seem to think
That he slumbered by the river,
   'Neath the influence of drink.

And they scarcely seem to wonder
   That the river, wide and deep,
Never woke him with its thunder,
   Never stirred him in his sleep.

As the crashing logs came sweeping,
   And their tumult filled the air,
Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping,
   "'Tis a wake in ould Kildare."

So the river rose and found him
   Sleeping softly by the stream,
And the cruel waters drowned him
   Ere he wakened from his dream.

And the blossom-tufted wattle,
   Blooming brightly on the lea,
Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle
   Going drifting out to sea.

First published in The Bulletin, 21 September 1889;
and later in
The Man From Snowy River and Other Verses by A.B. Paterson, 1895;
The Collected Verse of A.B. Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1982;
Singer of the Bush, A.B. (Banjo) Paterson: Complete Works 1885-1900 compiled by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie, 1983;
A Vision Splendid: The Complete Poetry of A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1990;
The Collected Verse of Banjo Paterson edited by Clement Semmler, 1993; and
Classic Australian Verse edited by Maggie Pinkney, 2001.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

   Things is just the same as ever
   On the outer Never-Never,
And you look to find the stock of liquor scanty,
   But we found things worse than ordin'ry,
   And in fact a bit extraordin'ry,
When myself and Bill the Pinker struck the shanty.
      "Shanty,"  says you. "What shanty?"
      Why, Mulligan's shanty!

   I says "Whisky"; Bill says "Brandy";
   But there wasn't either handy,
For the boss was out of liquor in that line.
   "Well, I'll try a rum," says Billy.
   "Got no rum," he answers, chilly,
"But I'll recommend a decent drop o' tine."
      "Tine?" says Bill; "what tine?"
      "Why, turpentine!"

   "Blow me blue!" says Bill the Pinker,
   "Can't yer give us a deep-sinker?
Ain't yer got a cask o' beer behind the screen?"
   Bill was getting pretty cranky,
   But there wasn't any swankey.
Says the landlord, "Why not try a drop o' sene?"
      "Sene?" says Bill; "what sene?"
      "Why, kerosene!"

   Well, we wouldn't spend a tanner,
   But the boss's pleasant manner
All our cursing couldn't easily demolish.
   Says he, "Strike me perpendic'lar
   But you beggars are partic'lar,
Why, the squatter in the parlor's drinking polish!"
      "Polish?" says Bill, "what polish?"
      "Why, furniture-polish!"

First published in The Bulletin, 23 April 1898 , and then in the same magazine on 17 May 1933, and 29 January 1980;
and later in
Australian Bush Songs and Ballads edited by Will Lawson, 1944;
Old Ballads from the Bush edited by Bill Scott, 1987; and
An Australian Treasury of Popular Verse edited by Jim Haynes, 2002.

Author: William Thomas Goodge (1862-1909) was born in Middlesex, England and arrived in Australia in 1882: he had jumped ship after serving as a ship-steward.  He spent the next decade in outback New South Wales working as a journalist and writer of verse before becoming editor and then part-owner of the Orange Leader. He eventually moved to Sydney where he wrote a weekly column for the Sydney Truth.  He died in North Sydney in 1909.

Author reference sites: Austlit

See also.

(It was stated at a recent deputation to Mr. Bent that in Castlemaine there was estimated to
be one hotel for every 32 persons-after making allowance for total abstainers.)

We come with a thirst from our labour,
   And townwards we hurry abreast,
Each leans on his bibulous neighbour,
   And orders a quart of the best;
The bar where the landlord stands stolid
   Is our playground, our home and our club;
You've got to drink steady and solid,
   With thirty-two men to a pub.

Each night in the worship of Bacchus
   We twist the vine leaves in our hair;
Teetotallers taunt and attack us --
   So we drink the teetotallers' share.
We hear not the Rechabites' chidings,
   The Good Templar a dullard we dub;
There's no time for disputes and deridings,
   With thirty-two men to the pub.

Oh, the beer, in its bubbling, brown beauty!
   Oh, the gin, in the jolly jug pent!
Should one of us fail in his duty,
   Then our host would be short in his rent.
Should one of us turn to sobriety,
   His children would starve -- there's the rub,
It's a duty we owe to society,
   We thirty-two men in the pub.

So we cling to the counter unceasing
   (Save on days when we stand in the courts),
And our power to absorb is increasing,
   We drink gallons where once we drank quarts.
We are thirty-two heroes, and we all
   Are braver than when we began;
For we struggle towards the ideal
   Of thirty-two pubs to a man.

First published in Melbourne Punch, 5 April 1906

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

   Where are the Beers of long ago?
I often deep and darkly ponder;
   Where are the Beers that used to flow?
Where are they now? I guess and wonder.
   Lie they at rest in tombs afar
Along with thoughts we used to think?
   Say, Bacchus -- tell us where they are,
Those long, cool Beers we used to drink?

   Do they, re-drawn all far away,
Scent fairy-fashioned Hebes' bowers!
   Or fail to cheer the dead men gray
With brown and softly falling showers?
   Perhaps behind some spectral bar
They're quaffed with winks we used to wink,
   And wealthy goblins globular
Drink ghosts of Beers we used to drink!

First published in The Bulletin, 29 March 1902

Author: Grant Madison Hervey (1880-1933) was born George Henry Cochrane in Casterton, Victoria.  After working as a blacksmith in his youth, Hervey began to write poetry, journalism and fiction.  He was a larger-than-life character, being charged with attempted murder in 1905, and later serving gaol terms for "forging and uttering".  He traveled to Sydney, Perth and the Western Australian goldfields earning a reputation as a "despicable" journalist.  He died in Melbourne in 1933.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

He said his love was like a red, red rose,
   As if the phrase had been his own invention;
And as I marked his style and red, red nose,
   I pitied her, with thoughts I needn't mention.

He said she always played a cheery part --
   Had many virtues, each one eighteen-carat;
Then staggered on, and clasped her to his heart --
   His love indeed, a bottle of old claret.

First published in The Bulletin, 23 January 1913

Author: Norman Lilley (ca1875-1941) worked as a journalist for The Bulletin, and the Argus in Melbourne.  He published and edited the short-lived Lilley's Magazine, which only lasted for 5 issues in 1911.

Author reference sites: Austlit