The Russians in Madras

McDowell, McDowell, Beware of the day When the Russians come sailing Through Bengal Bay; When they land at Madras In countless shoals, Cossacks, Siberians, Laplanders, Poles! Beware for they come As thirsty as bold, To a very hot climate, From regions of cold, And as soon as they land To ransack this town, They will rush, O! McDowell, To thy Godown! Oh who would not weep For thee O Madras! They'll swig every quart Of "Daukes' bottled Bass:" McDowell, slap into Your godowns, pell mell, They'll burst, and get tight on Your "Sparkling Moselle." Your "Light Wines," and "Rhine Wines" They'll certainly drain, Your "Burgundy," "Hock," "Greek Wines," and "Champagne." "Hockeimer," thy blood In torrents shall flow, With that choicest of Burgundies,— "Clos Vougeot." Lucid "White Hymet," Crystally clear, On the lips of Laplanders Shall shed many a tear. Down the throats of Siberians Shall freely be pour'd, "Suisse Extract d'Absinthe," And th' "Old Tom" of "Swaine Board." Whilst the Cossacks of Don Their paunches shall fill With "Creme de Noyeau" And "Creme de Vanille." McDowell, McDowell, Tell me I pray. Think you, could Russians Resist your "Tokai?" Think you their palates Could ever refuse Your mellow "Oporto" Your "Grande Chartreuse?" "Steinwine, in Box butel" "Blue labell'd Schloss," With "Chateau Pexoto," They'll certainly toss. Alas, oh, alas, What then will become Of your "Munro's best Cooper," And "Syrup of Gum?" Where then will your "Chablis," And "Palatine" go,— With your "Muscat," your "Cider,"— McDowell and Co.? Oh ghost of Exshaw, What bottles they'll burst, Of your "No. 1 Brandy,"— Of brandies the first! With Gledstane's best vintage They'll make them right merry,— His "oldest choice Cognac," His "pale yellow Sherry." But what shall we do That this may not be, When the thirsty barbarians Come over the sea?— Let us forestal the Russians! At once let us go— And buy the whole stock of MCDOWELL & CO.