Эндрю Бартон Патерсон (Andrew Barton Paterson)

The Lost Drink

I had spent the night in the watch-house -- 
My head was the size of three -- 
So I went and asked the chemist 
To fix up a drink for me; 
And he brewed it from various bottles 
With soda and plenty of ice, 
With something that smelt like lemon, 
And something that seemed like spice. 
It fell on my parching palate 
Like the dew on a sunbaked plain, 
And my system began to flourish 
Like the grass in the soft spring rain; 
It wandered throughout my being, 
Suffusing my soul with rest, 
And I felt as I ”scoffed” that liquid 
That life had a new-found zest. 

I have been on the razzle-dazzle 
Full many a time since then 
But I never could get the chemist 
To brew me that drink again. 
He says he’s forgotten the notion -- 
’Twas only by chance it came -- 
He’s tried me with various liquids 
But oh! they are not the same. 

We have sought, but we sought it vainly, 
That one lost drink divine; 
We have sampled his various bottles, 
But somehow they don’t combine: 
Yet I know when I cross the River 
And stand on the Golden Shore 
I shall meet with an angel chemist 
To brew me that drink once more.

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