(Whate'er the bawling bards have fung)
Had he, his bow till Bacchus ftrung,
And dipp'd his darts in wine:
Till old Silenus plung'd the boy
In nectar from the vine.
Then love, that was before a toy,
Besame the fource of mortal joy;
The urchia thook his dewy wings,
And carelefs leveli'd clowns and kings,
Such power has mighty wine.

When Thefeus on the naked fhore

Fair Ariadne left,

D' ye think he did her fate deplore,
Or her fine locks or bofom tore,

Like one of hope bereft ?

Not fhe, indeed. Her fleeting love

From mortal turns divine;
And as gay Bacchus' tigers move,
His car afcends amid a grove
Of vines, furrounded by a throng,
Who lead the jolly, pair along,
Alinoft half
with wine.
gone
Ma'am Helen lov'd the Phrygian boy,
He thought her all his own:
But hotteft love will fooneft cloy,
He ne'er had brought her fafe to Troy
But for the wife of Thone.

She, merry goffip, mix'd a cup
Of tipple, right divine,
To keep love's flagging fpirits up,
And Helen drank it every fup;
This liquor is 'mongft learned elves
Nepenthe call'd; but, 'twixt ourselves,
'Twas nothing more than wine.
Of Lethe, and its flow'ry brink,
Let mufty poets prate,

Where thirsty fouls are faid to drink,
That never they again may think
Upon their former state.

What is there in this foullefs lofs,
I pray you, fo divine?

Grief finds the palace and the cot,
Whish, for a tiine, were well forgot;

Come here then, in our Lethe share,

The true oblivion of

I

your care

Is only found in wine.

146. By the fame.

SAIL'D from the Downs in the Nancy,

My jib! how the smack & through the breeze! She's a veffel as tight to my fancy

As ever fail'd on the falt feas.

So adieu to the white cliffs of Britain,

Our girls, and our dear native fhore;
For, if fome hard rock we fhould split on,
We fhail never fee them any more.
But failors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow, high blow low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.
When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar,
I verily thought the 'd have funk;
For the wind fo began for to alter,

She yaw'd just as thof she was drunk.
The fquall tore the main-fail to fhivers,

Helm a-weather, the hoarfe boatswain cries;
Brace the fore-fail athwart, fee, the quivers
As through the rough tempeft the flies.
But failors, &c.

The form came on thicker and falter,
As black just as pitch was the sky;
When truly a doleful disaster

Befel three poor failors and I.

Ben Buntline, Sam Shrowd, and Dick Handfally
By a blaft that came furious and hard,
Juft while we were furling the main-fail,
Were ev'ry foul fwept from the yard.
But failors, &c.

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi :
As for I, at the risk of my neck,
While they funk down to old Davy,

Caught a rope, and fo landed on deck.
Well, what would you have?-we were ftrand.d.
And out of a fine jolly crew

Of three hundred that fail'd, never landed
But I and I think twenty-two.
But failors, &c.

After thus we at fea had mifcarried,
Another guefs way fet the wind;
For to England I came, and got married
To a lafs that was comely and kind.
But whether for joy or vexation,

We know not for what we are born:
Perhaps I may find a kind station,
Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn.
For a failor, &c.

147. By the fame. YANKO he tell, and he tell no lie, We near one pretty brook, Him flowing hair, him lovely eye, Sweetly on Orra look:

Ha

Him fee big world, fine warrior men,
Grand cruel king love blood;
Great king! but Yanko fay what den
If he no honeft good?
Virtue in foe be virtue ftill,

Fine ftone be found in mine:
The fun one dale, as well one hill,
Make warm where'er him shine.
You broder him, him broder you,

So all the world thould call; For Nature fay, and the fay true, That men be broder all.

If cruel man, like tiger grim,

Come bold in thirit of blood, Poor man-be noble-pity him, That he no honest good: Virtue in foe be virtue ftill,

Fine ftone be found in mine The fun one dale, as well one hill, Make warm where'er him thine.

§ 148. Yanko. By the fame. DEAR Yanko fay, and true he fay,

All mankind, one and t'other,
Negro, mulatto, and malay,

Through all the world be broder.
In black, in vellow, what disgrace,
That fcandal fo he ufe 'em?
For dere no virtue in de face,

De virtue in de bofom.

What harm dere in a fhape or make? What harm in ugly feature? Whatever colour, form, he take,

The heart make human creature. Then black and copper both be friend, No colour he bring beauty;

For beauty, Yanko fay, attend
On him who do him duty.
Dear Yanko fay, &c.

$149. By the fame. SURE 'ent the world a masquerade, Wid fhrugs and queer grimaces, Where all mankind a roaring trade Drive underneath bare faces? Pray, don't the lover, let me ask,

Hid by a fafcine battery,

Steal hearts away? and what's his mask? To be fure it is not flattery.

Then join the general mafquerade,

That men and manners traces;
To be fure, the best masks dat are made
For cheating 'ent bare faces.
Weigh yonder lawyer-I'll be bail,
So able are his talents,
The devil himself, in t'other scale,

Would quickly kick the balance.

But flap we 're o'ertaken, and fous'd in a shower. To shelter then quickly: and fee, now 'tis o'er, And in pretty good fpirits we fet out once more ; Now up hill, now down, now even, and now We are cover'd with duft, and now popp'd in a flough.

Thus we jog on till dinner, now wet, and now dry,

And now we've a low'ring, and now a clear sky; With the fire, the good landlord, the wine, and

the cheer,

Now refresh'd, we fet forward to end our career. But the roads are uneven, we trip, are bemired, And jolted and jostled, and tumbled, and tired; Yet we keep a good heart, and our fpirits are light, In hopes we hall meet with a good ina at night.

$151. By the fame.

ELIA 's an angel; by her face

CELL

The role and lily 's fhamed;
The treffes of love's queen, for grace,
With hers can ne'er be named.

The Gods, cried one, that face with care
Form'd in their beft of humours:
What pity 'tis both face and hair
Vere bought at the perfumer's!
Celia hath fworn to love till death:
For words fo full of blifs,

I could have long'd, but for her breath,
To steal an ardent kiss.
Rapture itself is poor and cold,
To joy that the difcovers:
What pity the the fame has told
To fifty other lovers!

Celia is young, behold her mien,
Alert from top to toe;
My aunt fays, the was juft fifteen
Some thirty years ago.
3 P 2

Thus

Thus youth and beauty's beft delights
Sweet Celia are adorning;
For the a Venus is at nights,

A Sybil in the morning.

$152. Let us all be unhappy together. By the fame.

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,

Alas! are the children of forrow;
And, though brifk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow:
For funfhine 's fucceeded by rain;
Then, fearful of life's ftormy weather,
Left pleafure fhould only, bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I

grant the best bleffing we know

Is a friend, for true friendship's a treafure;
And yet, left your friend prove a foe,
Ch taite not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus friendship's a flimfy affair,
Thus riches and health are a bubble;
Thus there's nothing delightful but care,
Nor any thing pleafing but trouble.
If a mortal would point out that life,
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honour are given.
But honour and truth are fo rare,
And horns, when they 're cutting, fo tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
I'd advife him to figh, and live fugle.
It appears from thefe premifes plain,
That witdom is nothing but folly;
That pleafure's a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy:
That all thofe who laugh ought to cry,
That 'tis fine frifk and fun to be grieving;
And that, fince we must all of us die,
We should tafte no enjoyment while living.

§ 154. The Soldier's Adicou. By the funt. ADIEU, adicu, my only life!

My honour calls me from thee; Remember thou 'rt a foldier's wife, Thote tears but ill become thes.

What though by duty I am call'd

Where thund'ring cannons rattle, Where valour's felf might fand appall'd, When on the wings of thy dear love

To heaven above

Thy fervent orifens are flown,
The tender prayer

Thou put up there

Shall call a guardian angel down,

To watch me in the baitle.

My fafety thy fair truth fhall be,

As fword and buckler ferving, My life thall be more dear to me, Becaufe of thy preferving.

Let peril come, let horror threat,

Let thund'ring cannons rattle, I'll fearleis feck the conflict's heat, Affured when on the wings of love To heaven above, &c. Enough. With that benignant finile Some kindred god infpir'd mee, Who knew thy bolom void of guile, Who wonder'd, and admir'd thee:

$156. By the fame. HARK the din of diftant war, How noble is the clangor!

Pale Death afcends his ebon car,
Clad in terrific anger.

A doubtful fate the foldier trics

Who joins the gallant quarrel: Perhaps on the cold ground he lies, No wife, no friend, to clefe his eyes, Though nobly mourn'd, Perhaps, return'd,

He's crown'd with victory's laurel.
How many, who, difdaining fear,
Rush on the defperate duty,
Shall claim the tribute of the tear
That dims the eye of beauty?
A doubtful fate, &c.

What noble fate can fortune give?
Renown thall tell our ftory

Is it honour you'd feek, won't you go to the wars? Where Death his long fcythe bathes in gore to the bilt,

And whips head from shoulders fo clever, And where fhould you have the good luck to be kilt,

By my foul you'll be living for ever!

The army's drawn out, the confufion 's begun, While our arms fhine fo bright that they dazzle the fun;

Oh the glorious fight! but the best of the joke, The devil a foul are we fecing but smoke. Death alive! &c.

Like a Will-o'-the-wifp, while our bofoms it fires,

See glory lead on, over bushes and briars;
Pafs, begone, hiccius doxius, just like cup and ball,
Now 'tis here, and now there, and now no where
at all.

Death alive! &c.

Ever flutter'd his wings to give speed to the
Was fo gay or fo careless as 1:

But my friend was a carfindo aboard a king's ship,
And he ax'd me to go juft to fea for a trip;
And he talk'd of fuch things,
As if failors were kings,

And fo teafing did keep,

[deep:

That I left my poor plough, to go ploughing the No longer the horn

Call'd me up in the morn,

I trufted to the carfindo and the inconftant wind
That made me for to go and leave my dear behind',

I did not much like to be aboard a-fhip;
When in danger there's no door to creep out ;

I liked the jolly tars, I like bumbo and lip,
But I did not like roeking about:
3 P 3

By

[wind

[deep

Ere I left my poor plough, to go ploughing the When fo jiveerly the horn

[wind,

Call'd me up in the morn---
Curfe light upon the carfindo and the inconftant
That made me for to go and leave my dear be-
hind.

Why if that be the cafe, faid this very fame friend,
And you ben't no more minded to roam,
Gis a fhake by the fift, all your care 's at an end,
Dad's alive, and your wife fafe at home!
Stark ftaring with joy, I leap'd out of my skin,
Buis'd my wife, mother, filter, and all of iny kin;
Now, cried I, let them roam
Who want a good home;

I am well, fo I'll keep,

[deep:

Nor again leave my plough, to go ploughing the
Once more fhall the horn
Call me up in the morn,

[wind,

Nor shall any damn'd carfindo, nor the inconftant E'er tempt me for to go and leave my dear behind.

§ 159. By the fame. POOR Peggy lov'd a foldier lad

More, far more than tongue can tell ye; Yet was her tender bofom fad Whene'er the heard the loud reveillez.

The fifes were fcreech-owls to her ears, The drums like thunder feem'd to rattle; Ah, too prophetic were her fears, They call'd him from her arms to battle. There wonders he against the foe Perform'd, and was with laurels crown'd; Vain pomp! for foon death laid him low, On the cold ground.

Her heart all love, her foul all truth, That none her fears or flight difcover, Poor Peg, in guife a commely youth Follow'd to the held her lover

5

Directed by the fife and drum, To where the work of death was doing; Where of brave hearts the time was come, Who, feeking honour, grafp at ruin : New horror came in every found, Her very foul was chill'd with woe,

And whisper'd, death had laid him low On the cold ground.

With mute affliction as she stood, While her woman's fears confound her, With terror all her foul fubdued, A mourning train came thronging round her: The martial obfequies difcover; The plaintive fife, and muffled drum,

I

His name he heard, and cried, I come, Faithful to meet my murder'd lover!

Then heart-rent by a figh of woe, Fell, to the grief of all around, Where death had laid her lover low, On the cold ground!

$160. By the fame

WHEN I comes to town with a load of hay,
knows pretty well how they figures away,
Mean and lowly though I feem,
While I whiftles and drives my team:
Your natty fparks, and flashy dames,
How I do love to queer!

I runs my rigs,

And plays a hundred comical games
And patters, and gigs,

To all that I comes near:

Then in a pet

To hear them fret,
A-mobbing away they go-

("The fcoundrel deserves to be horse-whipt:"} Who, me, ma'am →

Ball plunges, and paints him all over with mud, Queers his ftockings, and fpoils the beau!

Then the fweet pretty dear,

Ah could you but hear,

And