SONG.

WHEN the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented

(The list of what Fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipp'd in three blessings, wife, children, and friends.

In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, [and friends. For earth becomes heaven with wife, children,

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,' The fund ill secured oft in bankruptcy ends; But the heart issues bills which are never protested When drawn on the firm of wife, children, and friends.

Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers,

The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How bless'd was his home with wife, children, and friends.

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter whole ages of glory For one happy day with wife, children, and friends.

Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan

hover, [ascends, Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that [and friends. The bower where he sat with wife, children,

cover

The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;

But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow

No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, and friends.

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends; O'er me wave the willow! and long may it flourish, [friends. Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and Let us drink-for my song, growing graver and graver,

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends; Let us drink-pledge me high-Love and Virtue

shall flavour

[friends. The glass which I fill to wife, children, and

HON. W. R. SPENCER.

THE MELANCHOLY MOTHER'S

CRADLE SONG *.

HUSH, my baby! hush to rest!

Slumber bless thy pillow:

Sleep no more shall calm this breast,
Toss'd like ocean's billow.

* Written for an air composed by my friend, S. C. Brown, Esq.

VOL. III.

00

Hush, my babe! may Peace still spread
O'er thy couch her pinion;
Though thy hapless mother's head

Bends to woe's dominion.

Since, despising love and truth,
Stern thy father parted,
Bow'd to earth, in early youth
I perish broken hearted.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

THE PRAISES OF WINE.

Oн moment most bless'd in the short life of man! Brightest spot of enjoyment in time's gloomy span! When, just languid enough for delight, we recline By the fire's cheerful blaze o'er the fast flowing wine,

With sensations too soothing for words to express, Alive to all joy, dead to every distress.

Then, then gushing forth from the rapturons soul,
Good humour and genius unitedly roll; [Youth,
Laughing Friendship recounts all the pastimes of
And at least we display that one excellence-truth.
Cold prudence is banished, hypocrisy dies,

And the warm honest spirit looks out at the eyes.
With sarcastic reflections let Rasselas paint
The sinner convivial, a hermit the saint:
But, annals of convents! full well can ye show
That stagnation engenders corruption below;
And though heavenly retirement may purify man,
Monastic retirement on earth never can.

Nay, vain is the censure that aims at the mind,
And describes the good fellow to dulness confined,

Calls his mirth void of fancy, his joy insincere— Who can recognise Oldham and Rochester here? Or, to leave those choice wits and choice fellows

of yore,

Who will own this the picture of Morris and Moore?
Wine mitigates sorrow, wine stimulates joy!
Its virtues ne'er fail, its delights never cloy-
It gives strength to the weak, gentle thoughts to
the strong,

Renovation to hope, inspiration to song:

Age gathers fresh verdure from wonderful wine, And the best bloom of youth, radiant liquor, is thine!

Thou easest the captive, thou lull'st to repose The sad eye that too long has forgotten to close; All, all canst thou conquer-ah! wouldst thou but prove

Victorious for me over absence and love.

DRINKING SONG.

I CANNOT eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a cold,

I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.

I have no roast but a nut-brown toast,

And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire.

No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold,

I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, &c.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she troll to me the bowl,
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith,Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Back and side go bare, &c.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do;

They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to;

And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troul'd,

God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old.

1566.

STILL.