Bacchanalian Songs, SONG

The heathenish Gods thought good liquor divine, Ambrosia and Nectar were quaff'd off as wine: Dad Jove was oft' muz—merry Momus a soul, And big beily'd Bacchus stuck firm to his bowl: The glass gingled round, the glad deities roared, And gods keep it up, keep it up, was encor'd.

The giants of old from the grape seiz'd their might, Dapper fairies too sipp'd by the moon's silver light; Their puny libations with rapture were swill'd, And butter cup goblets with dew-drops were fill'd: And thus fairy favors dispensing around, The vales with their sonnets of pleasure resound.

Old Terra's a drunkard, nice casuists maintain, Opens her mouth for heaven's juice, gulph potations of rain; Which if they're denied, her no produce will bring, But russet appears the gay mantle of spring: The oak's sturdy root, the smart shrub, herb, or flow'r, E'en all vegetations refresh'd by the show'r.

Then why should not we the full goblet display, Let showers from a bumper still moisten our clay; With love 'twill inspire us, to friendship give zest, Raise our spirits, expand the proud heart in each breast: Your glasses then sill, let no moment be lost, For friendship, the king, and Old England's my toast.