BALLAD. (A plague of those musty old lubbers)

A plague of those musty old lubbers, Who tell us to fast and to think And patient fall in with life's rubbers, With nothing but water to drink.

A can of good stuff, had they twigg'd it, 'Twould have set them for pleasure agog, And, spight of the rules Of the schools, The old fools Would have all of 'em swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

My father, when last I from Guinea Return'd, with abundance of wealth, Cry'd Jack, never be such a ninny To drink:—said I—father, your health.

So I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it, And it set the old codger agog, And he swigg'd, and mother, And sister, and brother, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

Tother day, as the chaplain was preaching, Behind him I curiously slunk, And while he our duty was teaching, As how we should never get drunk,

I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it, And it soon set his rev'rence agog, And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

Then trust me there's nothing like drinking, So pleasant, on this side the grave; It keeps the unhappy from thinking, And makes e'en more valiant the brave.

As for me, from the moment I twigg'd it, The good stuff has so set me agog, Sick or well, late or early, Wind foully or fairly, Helm a-lee or a weather, For hours together I've constantly swigg'd it, And, dam'me, there's nothing like grog.