Ye poets who write, And brag of your drinking fam❜d Helicons brook, Is a dinner oft-times, In reward of your rhimes, And quit your Apollo, Forfake all the mufes, thofe fenfeless old crones; Your rhiming furpafles, When crown'd with good claret, and bumpers, 'squire Jones. Ye foldiers fo flout, With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin, Who make fuch a rout Of all your commanders Who ferv'd us in Flanders, And eke at the Boyne: Come leave off your rattling Of fieging and battling, And know you'd much better to fleep in whole bones; Your note you'd foon alter, And wish for good claret, and bumpers, 'squire Jones. Ye clergy fo wife, Who mylt'ries profound can demonftrate moft clear, You preach once a week, But your tithes never feck Above once in a year : Come Come here without failing, And leave off your railing 'Gainft bishops providing for dull ftupid drones; Says the text fo divine, What is life without wine? Then away with the claret, a bumper, 'squire Jones. Ye lawyers fo juft, Be the cause what it will, who fo learnedly plead. You know black from white, Yet prefer wrong to right, As you chance to be fee'd: Leave musty reports, And forfake the kings courts, Where Dulness and Discord have fet up their thrones; With all your damn'd entries, And away with the claret, a bumper, 'squire Jones. Ye phyfical tribe, Whofe knowlege confifts in hard words and grimace, Have at your devotion Be what will the cafe : Pray where is the need To purge, blifter, and bleed? When ailing yourfelves the whole faculty owns, That the forms of old Galen Are not fo prevailing As mirth with good claret, and bumpers, 'squire Jones. Ye foxhunters eke, That follow the call of the horn and the hound, Who your ladies forfake, To beat up the brake Where the vermin is found: Leave Piper and Blueman, Shrill Duchefs and Trueman; No mufic is found in fuch diffonant tones: With the fongs of the spheres, Hark away to the claret, a bumper, 'squire Jones. We abandon all ale, And beer that is ftale, Rofa Solis and damnable hum; But we will crack In the praife of fack, 'Gainft omne quod exit in um. This is the wine Which in former time Let the hop be their bane In taking their drink, Seu Græcum, five Latinum. Let the glass go round, Let the quart pot found; Avaunt ye that hug The abominable jug. 'Mongft us heteroclita funto. There's There's no fuch difeafe As he that doth please His palate with beer for to fhame us ; 'Tis fack makes us fing, Hey down a down ding, Mufa paulo majora canamus. He is either mute Or does poorly difpute, The more a man drinks, Like a fubtile fphinx, Tantum valet ifte loquendo. 'Tis true our fouls, By the loofy bowls Of beer that doth naught but fwill us, (Pythagoras 'tis thine) Nam vos mutaftis et illas. When I've fack in my brain I'm in a merry vein, And this to me a bliss is ; Him that is wife I can juftly defpife, Mecum confertur Ulyffes? How |