The polished brass, the gleaming glass,  
The hearth that warms as nights will pass.  
The publican stands firm and tall,  
The master of his tavern’s hall.  

In cobbled streets of London’s sprawl,  
Or village inns where ivy crawls,  
The weary folk and workers meet,  
To rest their bones and find retreat.  

With barrels stacked and taps in line,  
He measures out his ale and wine.  
Stout porter black, pale ale so bright,  
Served heavy-handed, day and night.  

The pub, a refuge rich with cheer,  
Where laughter rings and men draw near.  
The gaslights hum, the clay pipes glow,  
The fire crackles soft and low.  

The snug is quiet, genteel talk,  
Where ladies sip their sherry stock.  
While in the taproom, loud and strong,  
The working lads sing rough-hewn song.  

He keeps his post with watchful eye,  
For drunks who shout and fists that fly.  
A fight, a bet, a heated word,  
The publican’s stern voice is heard.  

“No credit here!” his notice claims,  
For debts will sink his careful gains.  
A shilling earned is wisely kept,  
For beer must flow and books be prepped.  

The brewer comes with wagons full,  
The barrels rolled, a straining pull.  
The publican inspects the store,  
Ensures it’s fit, then pays once more.  

The law looms large, a constant thread,  
Licensing hours strictly read.  
From Sunday stillness, church bells call,  
No ale till noon for one and all.  

His wife, with apron tied up neat,  
Keeps glasses clean and seats the feet.  
She knows each face, each tale and frown,  
The pulse of all the growing town.  

At closing time, the shutters slam,  
The last man out, the doors are jammed.  
The landlord sighs, the lights grow dim,  
The world outside feels far from him.  

For every pint and pipe he serves,  
He treads a line he dare not swerve.  
A keeper of both warmth and law,  
The publican is lore and lore.