E

SONG XXIV.

VERY man take a glass in his hand,
And drink a good health to the king;
Many years may he rule o'er this land;

May his laurels for ever fresh spring:
Let wrangling and jangling ftraightway cease,
Let ev'ry man ftrive for his countrys peace;
Neither tory nor whig

With their parties look big:
Here's a health to all honeft men.

'Tis not owning a whimfical name
That proves a man loyal and just;
Let him fight for his countrys fame,
Be impartial at home if in truft;

'Tis this that proves him an honest soul,
His health we'll drink in a brimful bowl:
Then let's leave off debate,

No confufion create;

Here's a health to all honeft men.

When a company's honeftly met,
With intent to be merry and gay,

Their drooping spirits to whet,

And drown the fatigues of the day; What madness is it thus to difpute, When neither fide can his man confute?

When you've faid what you dare, You're but just where you were, Here's a health to all honeft men.

Then agree, ye true Britons, agree,
And ne'er quarrel about a nick-name;
Let your enemies trembling fee,

That an Englishman's always the fame;
For our king, our church, our law, and right,
Let's lay by all feuds, and ftraight unite,
Then who need care a fig,

Who's a tory or whig:

Here's a health to all honeft men.

SONG Xxy.

BY TOM BROW N.

Wakes us frolic and gay,

wine in a morning

That like eagles we foar,

In the pride of the day;
Gouty fots of the night
Only find a decay.

"Tis the fun ripes the grape,
And to drinking gives light;
We imitate him,

When by noon we're at height;
They fteal wine, who take it
When he's out of fight.

Boy, fill all the glasses,

Fill them up now he shines ;

The higher he rifes

The more he refines,

For wine and wit fall

As their maker declines.

SONG

H

SONG XXVI.

AD Neptune, when first he took charge of the sea, Been as wife, or at least been as merry as we, He'd have thought better on't, and, instead of his brine, Would have fill'd the vaft ocean with generous wine.

What trafficking then would have been on the main
For the fake of good liquor, as well as for gain!
No fear then of tempeft, or danger of finking;
The fishes ne'er drown that are always a drinking.

The hot thirsty fun then would drive with more haste,
Secure in the evening of fuch a repast;

And when he'd got tipfy would have taken his nap
With double the pleasure in Thetises lap.

By the force of his rays, and thus heated with wine,
Confider how gloriously Phoebus would shine;
What vaft exhalations he'd draw up on high,
To relieve the poor earth as it wanted fupply.

How happy us mortals when blefs'd with fuch rain,
To fill all our veffels, and fill them again!
Nay even the beggar that has ne'er a dish
Might jump in the river, and drink like a fish.

What mirth and contentment in every ones brow,
Hob as great as a prince dancing after the plow!
The birds in the air, as they play on the wing,
Although they but fip, would eternally fing.

The ftars, who I think don't to drinking incline,
Would frisk and rejoice at the fume of the wine;
And, merrily twinkling, would foon let us know
That they were as happy as mortals below.

Had this been the cafe, what had we then enjoy'd,
Our spirits ftill rifing, our fancy ne'er cloy'd!
A pox then on Neptune, when 'twas in his pow'r,
To flip, like a fool, such a fortunate hour.

SONG XXVII.

FROM AN ACREON.

BY ABRAHAM COWLEY ESQ.

HE thirsty earth drinks up the rain,
And thirfts, and gapes for drink again;

The plants fet in the earth, they are
By conftant drinking fresh and fair."

The fea itself, which, one would think,
Should have but little need to drink,
Drinks many a thousand rivers up,
Into his overflowing cup.

The bufy fun (and one would guess
By his drunken fiery face no lefs)
Drinks up the fea, and when that's done,
The moon and ftars drink up the fun.

They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night;
Nothing in nature's fober found,
But an eternal health goes round.

I

Fill up the bowl, boys, fill it high;
Fill all the glaffes here; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

SONG XXVIII.

BY ARTHUR DAWSON ESQ.*

E good fellows all,

YE

Who love to be told where there's claret good store,

Attend to the call

Of one who's ne'er frighted,

But greatly delighted,

With fix bottles more:

Be fure you don't pafs

The good houfe Money Glafs,

Which the jolly red god fo peculiarly owns ;

'Twill well fuit your humour,

For pray what would you more,

Than mirth, with good claret, and bumpers, 'squire Jones.

Ye lovers who pine

For laffes that oft prove as cruel as fair,

Who whimper and whine

For lilies and roses,

With eyes, lips, and nofs,

Or tip of an ear:

Come hither, I'll show you

How Phillis and Chloe

No more fhall occafion fuch fighs and fuch groans;
For what mortal fo ftupid

As not to quit Cupid,

When call'd by good claret, and bumpers, 'squire Jones.

* Third baron of the Exchequer in Ireland. Who is faid to have tranflated it from one of the compofitions of Carolan, a celebrated modern Irish bard.

Ye