My first is found on the ocean wave, In the spring, the pit, and the mine; My second below earth’s surface you have, Where seldom the sun can shine. My whole your dinner-table must grace, And seldom fails to obtain a place.
Whether old Homer tippled wine or beer, Julep or cider, history is not clear; But plain it is—the bard, though wont to roam, But for one liquid, never had left home.
