There came a lonely Briton to the town,
A solitary Briton with a mission,
He-d vowed a vow to put all -shouting� down,
To relegate it to a low position.
Transcendently Britannic in his dress,
His manners were polite, and slightly formal;
And-this I mention with extreme distress-
His -put away� for liquid was abnormal.

He viewed this -shouting� mania with disgust,
As being generosity perverted,
When any of the -boys� went on the bust
He strove his best that they might be converted.

He wouldn-t take a liquor with a man,
Not if he was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered,
And yet, he drank-construe it as you can-
Unsweetened gin, most moderately watered.

And when the atmosphere was in a whirl,
And language metaphorical ran riot,
He-d calmly tender sixpence to the girl,
And drink his poison-solus-nice and quiet.

Whenever he was asked to breast the bar
He-d answer, with a touch of condescension:
-I much regret to disoblige so far
As to decline your delicate attention.

-That drink-s a curse that hangeth like a leech-
A sad but most indubitable fact is,
Mankind was meant to drink alone, I preach,
And what I preach invariably practise.

-I never pay for others, nor do I
Take drink from them, and never, never would, sir-
One man, one liquor! though I have to die
A martyr to my faith-that-s Jimmy Wood, sir.

-My friend, -tis not a bit of use to raise
A hurricane of bluster and of banter:
I preach my humble gospel in the phrase,
Similia similibus curantur;

-Which means: by drinking how and when I like,
And sticking to the one unsweetened sample,
I hope in course of time that it will strike
All men to follow up my good example.�

In course of time it struck all men that Jim
Was fast developing into a soaker-
The breath of palsy on his every limb,
A bleary face touched up with crimson ochre.

Yet firmly stood he by the sinking ship,
Went down at last with all his colours flying;
No hand but his raised tumbler to his lip,
What time J. Woods, the Martyr, lay a-dying.

Misunderstood reformer! gallant heart!
He gave his path to Death-the great collector.
Now . . . in Elysian fields he sits apart
And sips his modest -Tommy Dodd� of nectar.

His signature is on the scroll of fame,
You cannot well forget him, though you would, sir,
The man is dead, not so his homely name,
Who drinks alone-drinks toast to Jimmy Wood, sir.