Stothard def

Blake pr

DRINKING SONGS.

PHO

SONG I.

THE HONEST FELLOW.

HO! pox o'this nonfenfe, I prithee give o'er,
And talk of your Phillis and Chloe no more;

Their face, and their air, and their mien-what a rout!.
Here's to thee, my lad !-push the bottle about.

Let finical fops play the fool and the ape;
They dare not confide in the juice of the grape :
But we honeft fellows-'fdeath! who'd ever think
Of puling for love, while he's able to drink.

'Tis wine, only wine, that true pleasure bestows;
Our joys it increafes, and lightens our woes;
Remember what topers of old us'd to fing,
The man that is drunk is as great as a king.

VOL. II.

· B

'Tis

If Cupid affaults you, there's law for his tricks ;
Anacreons cafes, fee page twenty-fix :

The precedent's glorious, and juft by my foul;
Lay hold on, and drown the young dog in a bowl.

What's life but a frolic, a fong, and a laugh?
My toaft fhall be this, whilft I've liquor to quaff,
May mirth and good fellowship always abound:
Boys, fill up a bumper, and let it go round.

SONG II.

"ROUND O."

B

ETTER our heads than hearts should ake,

Loves childish empire we defpife;

Good wine of him a flave can make,
And force a lover to be wife.

Wine fweetens all the cares of peace,
And takes the terror off from war;

To loves affliction it gives eafe,
And to our joys does beft prepare,

Better our heads than hearts fhould ake,
Loves childish empire we defpife;
Good wine of him a flave can make,

And force a lover to be wife.

SONG

Some the weather, and fome the cocks:

But if you'll give me leave to tell,

There's nothing can be compar'd fo well,

As wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

Women are witches, when they will,

So is wine, fo is wine;

They make the statesman lofe his skill,
The foldier, lawyer, and divine;
They put a gig in the graveft fkull,
And fend their wits to gather wool:

'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

What is't that makes your visage so pale?
What is't that makes your looks divine?
What is't that makes your courage to fail?
Is it not women? Is it not wine?

'Tis wine will make you fick when you're well; 'Tis women that make your forehead to fwell: 'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

THE

HE women all tell me I'm false to my lass, That I quit my poor Chloe, and stick to my glass; But to you men of reason, my reasons I'll own; And if you don't like them, why-let them alone.

Although I have left her, the truth I'll declare;
I believe she was good, and I'm fure she was fair;
But goodness and charms in a bumper I fee,

That make it as good and as charming as fhe.

My Chloe had dimples and fmiles, I must own;
But, though fhe could fmile, yet in truth fhe could frown:
But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,

Did you e'er see a frown in a bumper of wine?

Her lilies and rofes were juft in their prime;
Yet lilies and rofes are conquer'd by time:
But in wine, from its age fuch a benefit flows,
That we like it the better the older it grows.

They tell me my love would in time have been cloy'd,
And that beauty's infipid when once 'tis enjoy'd;
But in wine I both time and enjoyment defy;
For the longer I drink, the more thirsty am I.

Let murders, and battles, and history prove

The mischiefs that wait upon rivals in love;
But in drinking, thank heaven, no rival contends,
For the more we love liquor, the more we are friends,

She too might have poifon'd the joy of my life,
With nurses and babies, and fqualling, and ftrife;
But my wine neither nurfes nor babies can bring;
And a big-bellied bottle's a mighty good thing.

We

We shorten our days when with love we engage,
It brings on diseases and haftens old age;
But wine from grim death can its votaries fave,
And keep out t' other leg, when there's one in the

Perhaps, like her fex, ever falfe to their word,
She had left me to get an estate, or a lord;
But my bumper (regarding nor title nor pelf)
Will ftand by me when I can't ftand by myself.

Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain;
She's rid of her lover, and I of my pain;

grave.

For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I fpy; Should you doubt what I say, take a bumper and try.

SONG V.

HE tells me with claret fhe cannot agree,

SHE

And the thinks of a hogfhead whene'er fhe fees me;

For I fmell like a beast, and therefor muft I,

Refolve to forfake her, or claret deny.

Must I leave my dear bottle, that was always my friend,
And I hope will continue fo to my lifes end?

Muft I leave it for her? 'tis a very hard task:
Let her go to the devil!-bring the other full flask.

Had she tax'd me with gaming, and bid me forbear,
'Tis a thousand to one I had lent her an ear:
Had the found out my Sally, up three pair of stairs,
I had balk'd her and gone to St. Jameses to prayers.
Nauture,

B 3