« ForrigeFortsett »
The Riots and Routs
Of the Ins and the Outs, Is only a newspaper roast;
Of Cricket I sing,
In and Out there's the thing, And there I'll attempt a new Toast.
May our Innings be long,
May our bowling be strong, Middle-wicket I chuse for my post;
Come, bumper away,
'Twixt the Stumps your Balls play, And win the Game Love-that's the Toast.
Our Senses are bubbles in Vanity's Fair,
Behold the Booth's Shew-cloth to draw the croud
in, The Rustics are wrinkl’d with open-mouth grin. Each Muscle's in motion at Andrew's grimace, Who tickles the throng 'till they push in for place; Pray tell me what more is the World's present
plan, Than places to get in, and push who push can.
The shirtless untrowzer'd Philosophers Saws,
cry’d. Keep Sapience in schools, Folly now is the mode, Truth's ways want repairing, I'll ride the new Road.
My Bottle's my Hunter, I mount with a Song,
ET those who have nothing to do but to hear,
And those who have nothing to do but to sneer,
Glean Scandal from Infamy's stubble; Praise is but a vapour, and Censure the same, Go ask of Philosophers what they call Fame?
'Tis Anglice, Vanity's bubble. This scribbling, this pen-and-ink-itch is a crime, Yet Heaven forgive each poor Sinner in Rhime,
Condemn'd to the penance of Thinking;
Huzza! for good eating and drinking.
The Sapphics so soft, the Pindarics so rare,
With many more names that are harder.
But study the style of a Larder.
Parnassus and Pegasus, cold Hypocrene,
And as to the Pedant Apollo,
But Bacchus and Venus I'll follow.
The Choice Spirit Horace compos'd Lyric Verse,
Cap, scan 'em, and conjugate clever ;
So BEEF and a BUMPER for ever!
So late white o'er with Snow; Now 'ray'd in flow'r enameli'd green,
How rich the meadows shew?
The Sun creative pow'r resumes,
And warms the breezy air ;
While birds their nests prepare.
The Herds, and Flocks on herbage feed,
Sweet Spring renews its pride;
Now tinkling, roll their tide.
On leafless boughs no candy'd frost
In icycles appears ;
Dissolving into tears.
But mere existence prove;
And melts the Mass to Love.
For spite of Wealth, or Power's controul,
Or all the Wise can say, 'Till WOMAN warms the frozen soul,
We are but Clods of Clay.
You'll wonder, indeed, when this Wonder
We are wonderful high, and as wonderful low.
Which nobody can deny.
We always are wond'ring at ev'ry thing new,