109

WITH an honest old friend and a merry old

song,

And a flask of old port let me sit the night

long,

And laugh at the malice of those who repine That they must drink porter whilst I can drink wine.

I envy no mortal tho' ever so great,
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate;
But what I abhor and esteem as a curse,
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse.

Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay, Let us merrily pass life's remainder away; Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise,

For the more we are envied, the higher we

rise.

HENRY CAREY (d. 1743).

110

AN ASPIRATION

OH! lead me to some peaceful room,
Where none but honest fellows come,
Where wives' loud clappers never sound,
But an eternal laugh goes round.

There let me drown in wine my pain,
And never think of home again:
What comfort can a husband have
To rule the house where he's a slave?

111

METHOUGHT I little Cupid saw,

Astride a tun above;

And Bacchus with a nymph below,
Devoutly making love.

Friend, said the laughing god, you see
How we our pleasures join;

Not always beauty pleases me,

Nor always Bacchus wine.

But while we interchange our bliss,
We feel renewing charms;

He with fresh joy flies back to this,
And I to Celia's arms.

112

EPIGRAM ON PUNCH

HENCE! restless cares and low design;
Hence! foreign compliments and wine:
Let generous Britons, brave and free,
Still boast their punch and honesty.
Life is a bumper fill'd by fate,
And we the guests who share the treat,
Where strong, insipid, sharp, and sweet
Each other duly temp'ring meet.

A while with joy the scene is crown'd,
A while the catch and toast go round;
And when the full carouse is o'er,

Death puffs the lights and shuts the door.
Say then, physicians of each kind,
Who cure the body or the mind,-
What harm in drinking can there be,
Since punch and life so well agree?

THOMAS BLACKLOCK, D.D.
(1721-1791).

113

You may talk of brisk claret, sing praises of sherry,

Speak well of old hock, mum, cider, and perry; But you must drink punch if you mean to be merry.

A bowl of this liquor the gods being all at, Thought good we should know it by way of new ballad,

As fit for both ours and their Highnesses' palate.

Then thanks to the gods, those tipplers above

us,

They've taught us to drink, and therefore they

love us,

And to drink very hard is all they crave of us.

114

RING, ring the bar-bell of the world,
Great Bacchus calls for wine;

Haste, pierce the globe, its juices drain,
To whet him ere he dine.

Have you not heard the bottle cluck,
When first you've pour'd it forth?
The globe shall cluck as soon as tapp'd,
To brood such sons of worth.

When this world's out, more worlds we'll

have:

Who dare oppose the call?

If we had twice ten thousand worlds,
Ere night we'd drink them all!

See, see our drawer, Atlas, comes,

His cask upon his back;

Haste! drink and swill, let's boose amain,
Till all our girdles crack!

Apollo cried, Let's drink amain,

Lest Time should go astray,

We'll make Time drunk, the rest replied,
We gods can make a day.

Brave Hercules, who took the hint,
Required Time to drink,

And made him gorge such potions down,
That Time forgot to think.

Unthinking Time thus overcome,
And nonplussed in the vast,
Dissolv'd in the ætherial world,
Sigh'd, languish'd, groan'd his last.

Now Time's no more, let's drink away;
Hang flinching, make no words:

Like true-born Bacchanalian souls
We'll get as drunk as lords!