WITH an honest old friend and a merry old song,
And a flask of old port, let me sit the night long,
And laugh at the malice of those who repine
That they must drink porter whilst I can drink wine.
I envy no mortal tho' ever so great,
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate;
But what I abhor and esteem as a curse,
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse.
Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay,
Let us merrily pass life's remainder away;
Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise,
For the more we are envied, the higher we rise.
Henry Carey.
WHAT Cato advises most certainly wise is,
Not always to labor, but sometimes to play,
To mingle sweet pleasure with thirst after treasure,
Indulging at night for the toils of the day:
And while the dull miser esteems himself wiser
His bags to increase, while his health does decay,
Our souls we enlighten, our fancy we brighten,
And pass the long evenings in pleasure away.
All cheerful and hearty, we set aside party,
With some tender fair the bright bumper is crown'd; Thus Bacchus invites us, and Venus delights us, While care in an ocean of claret is drown'd.
See here's our physician,—we know no ambition,
But where there's good wine and good company found; Thus happy together, in spite of all weather,
'Tis sunshine and summer with us all the year round! Henry Carey.
IN the days of my youth I've been frequently told,
That the best of good things are despised when they're old,
Yet I own, I'm so lost in the modes of this life,
As to prize an old friend, and to love an old wife;
And the first of enjoyments, thro' life, has been mine,
To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine.
In this gay world, new fashions spring up every day,
And to make room for them, still the old must give way;
A new fav'rite at Court will an old one displace,
And too oft an old friend will put on a new face:
Yet the pride, pomp, and splendour of courts I'd resign,
To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine.
With old England, by some folks, great faults have been found,
Tho' they've since found much greater on New England's ground,
And the thief a new region transportedly hails,
Quitting Old England's coast for a trip to New Wales: But such transporting trips, pleased with home, I'd decline, To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine.
By the bright golden sun, that gives birth to the day,
Tho' as old as the globe which he gilds with his ray,
And the moon, which, tho' new, every month, as we're told,
Is the same silver lamp near six thousand years old-
Could the lamp of my life last while sun and moon shine,
I'd regale an old friend with a flask of old wine.
IF all be true that I do think,
There are five reasons we should drink;
Good wine-a friend-or being dry-
Or lest we should be by and by
Or any other reason why.
ON BREAKING A CHINA QUART-MUG BELONGING TC THE SOCIETY OF LINCOLN College, OxFORD
WHENE'ER the cruel hand of death
Untimely stops a favourite's breath,
Muses in plaintive numbers tell
How loved he lived-how mourn'd he fell;
Catullus wail'd his sparrow's fate,
And Gray immortalised his cat.
Thrice tuneful bards! could I but chime so clever,
My quart, my honest quart, should live for ever.
How weak is all a mortal's power
T'avert the death-devoted hour!
Nor can a shape, or beauty save
From the sure conquest of the grave.
In vain the butler's choicest care,
The master's wish, the bursar's prayer!
For when life's lengthen'd to its longest span,
China itself must fall, as well as man.
Can I forget how oft my quart
Has soothed my care, and warm'd my heart?
When barley lent its balmy aid,
And all its liquid charms display'd!
When orange and the nut-brown toast
Swam mantling round the spicy coast!
The pleasing depth I view'd with sparkling eyes,
Nor envied Jove the nectar of the skies.
The side-board, on that fatal day,
When you in glittering ruins lay,
Mourn'd at thy loss-in guggling tone
Decanters poured out their moan-
A dimness hung on every glass-
Joe wonder'd what the matter was--
Corks, self-contracted, freed the frantic beer,
And sympathising tankards dropt a tear.
Where are the flowery wreaths that bound
In rosy rings thy chaplets round?
The azure stars whose glittering rays
Promised a happier length of days!
The trees that on thy border grew,
And blossom'd with eternal blue!
Trees, stars, and flowers are scatter'd on the floor,
And all thy brittle beauties are no more.
Hadst thou been form'd of coarser earth,
Had Nottingham but given thee birth!
Or had thy variegated side
Of Stafford's sable hue been dyed,
Thy stately fabric had been found,
Though tables tumbled on the ground.
The finest mould the soonest will decay;
Hear this, ye fair, for you yourselves are clay !
ALL you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-Hall beer,
Or ever cried "roast-meat" for having been there,
To crown your good cheer, pray accept of a catch,
Now Harry and Betty have struck up a match!
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
As things may fall out which nobody would guess,
So it happens that Harry should fall in with Bess:
May they prove to each other a mutual relief;
To their plenty of carrots, I wish 'em some beef!
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
She had a great talent at roast-meat and boil'd,
And seldom it was that her pudding was spoil'd;
Renown'd, too, for dumpling, and dripping-pan sop;
At handling a dish-clout, and twirling a mop.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
To kitchen-stuff only her thoughts did aspire,
Yet wit she'd enough to keep out of the fire:
And though in some things she was short of the fox,
It is said, she had twenty good pounds in her box.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
Now we've told you the bride's rare descent and estate, 'Tis fit that the bridegroo:n's good parts we relate ⚫ As honest a ploughman as e'er held a plough,
As trusty a carter as e'er cried, "Gee-ho!"
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
So lovingly he with his cattle agreed,
That seldom a lash for his whip he had need:
When a man is so gentle and kind to his horse,
His wife may expect that he'll not use her worse.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
With industry he has collected the pence,
In thirty good pounds there's a great deal of sense,
And though he suspected ne'er was of a plot,
None yet in good-humor e'er called him a sot.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
For brewing we hardly shall meet with his fellow,
His beer is well hopt, clear, substantial, and mellow :
He brew'd the good liquor, she made the good cake,
And as they have brew'd even so let them bake.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
Your shoes he can cobble, she mend your old clothes,
And both are ingenious at darning of hose:
Then since he has gotten the length of her foot,
As they make their own bed,—so pray let them go to't.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl,
Whilst rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal:
Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan,
Hit 'em each on the nose with the hose, if ye can.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
May her wheel and his plough be so happily sped,
With the best in the parish to hold up their head:
May he load his own wagon with butter and cheese,
Whilst she rides to market with turkeys and geese.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
May he be churchwarden, and yet come to church,
Nor when in his office take on him too much :
May she meet due respect, without scolding or strife,
And live to drink tea with the minister's wife!
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
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