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

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

Who's a tory or whig?

Here's a health to all honest men.

'Tis the sun ripes the grape,
And to drinking gives light;
We imitate him,

When by noon we're at height;
They steal wine, who take it

When he's out of sight.

* It is printed in Tom's works; but that, indeed, is no conclusive

proof of his property in it.

Boy, fill all the glasses,

Fill them up now he shines;
The higher he rises

The more he refines,

For wine and wit fall

As their maker declines.

SONG XXVI.

HAD Neptune, when first he took charge of the sea,
Been as wise, 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 vast ocean with generous wine.

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

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

And when he'd got tipsy, would have taken his nap
With double the pleasure in Thetis's lap.

;

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

How happy us mortals, when bless'd with such rain,
To fill all our vessels, 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 one's 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 sip, would eternally sing.

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

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

SONG XXVII.

FROM ANACREON.

BY ABRAHAM COWLEY, ESQ.

THE thirsty earth drinks up the rain,
And thirsts, and gapes for drink again;
The plants set in the earth, they are
By constant drinking fresh and fair.

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

The busy sun (and one would guess
By his drunken fiery face no less)

Drinks up the sea, and when that's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun :

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

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

SONG XXVIII.

BY ARTHUR DAWSON, ESQ.

YE good fellows all,

*

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 six bottles more :

* Third baron of the Exchequer in Ireland: who is said to have translated it from one of the compositions of Carolan, a celebrated modern Irish bard. [See the life of Turlough O'Carolan, with specimens of his native muse, in Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards,' by that elegant, liberal, and much lamented scholar Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq. of St. Valeri, near Bray in Ireland.]

The good house Money Glass,

Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns;

'Twill well suit your humour,

For pray what would you more,

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

Ye lovers who pine

For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,

Who whimper and whine

For lilies and roses,

With eyes, lips, and noses,

Or tip of an ear:

Come hither, I'll show you

How Phyllis and Chloe

No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans;
For what mortal so stupid

As not to quit Cupid,

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

Ye poets who write,

And brag of your drinking fam'd Helicon's 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,

Forsake all the muses, those senseless old crones;

Our jingling of glasses

Your rhiming surpasses,

When crown'd with good claret, and bumpers, 'squire

Jones.