Ye poets who write,

And brag of your drinking fam❜d Helicons brook,
Though all you get by't

Is a dinner oft-times,

In reward of your rhimes,
With Humphrey the duke:
Learn Bacchus to follow,

And quit your Apollo,

Forfake all the mufes, thofe fenfeless old crones;
Our jingling of glasses

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;
Were you fent to Gibraltar,

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,
How worthy to rife!

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.
How worthy of trust!

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;
Burn Salkeld and Ventris,

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,
Whene'er you prescribe

Have at your devotion
Pills, bolus, or potion,

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,
Before they're awake,

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
Each wife one of the Magi
Was wont to carouse
In a frolicfome blouse,
Recubans fub tegmine fagi.

Let the hop be their bane
And a rope be their fhame,
Let the gout and the cholic pine 'em
That offer to fhrink

In taking their drink,

Seu Græcum, five Latinum.

Let the glass go round,

Let the quart pot found;
Let each one do as he's done to ;

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,
That drinks not wine as we men do ;

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,
Do go into fwine,

(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