'Squire Jones

You good fellows all, That love to be told where there's claret good store, Attend to the call; Of one that's ne'er frighted, But greatly delighted; With six bottles more, Be sure you don't pass The good house nor the glass, Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns; It will well suit your humour, For pray what would you more Than mirth with good claret in a bumper 'Squire Jones.

You lovers that pine, For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair, That whimper and whine; For lillies and roses, With eyes, lips and noses; Or tip of an ear, Come hither I'll show ye How Phillis and Chloe No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans; What mortal so stupid, As not to quit Cupid, When call'd by good claret in a bumper, 'Squire Jones.

Ye Physical tribe, Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace, Whene'er you prescribe, Have at your devotion, Pills Bolus or Potion, Be what will the case; Pray what is the need, To purge blister or bleed; When ailing yourselves the whole faculty owns That the forms of old Galen Are not so prevailing; As mirth with good claret in a bumper, 'Squire Jones.

You lawyers so just, Be the cause what it will that so learnedly plead, How worthy of trust; You know black from white, Yet prefer wrong to right; As you chance to be fee'd, Leave musty reports, And forsake the law courts, Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones. Burn Salkeld and Ventris, With all their damn'd entries, And about with good claret in a bumper, 'Squire Jones.

You soldiers so stout, Who have plenty of oaths tho' not plenty of coin, That make such a rout; Of all your Commanders, That serv'd us in Flanders; And eke at the boyne; Then leave off your rattling, Of seiging and battling, And know 'tis much better to sleep with whole bones, Were you sent to Gibralter Your notes would soon alter, And wish for good claret in a bumper 'Squire Jones.

You poets who write And sing of your drinking fam'd Helicon's brook, Tho' all you get by't Is a dinner of't times, In reward of your rhymes, With Humphry the Duke: Learn Bacchus to follow, And quit your Apollo; Forsake all the Muses those senseless old drones, For the jingling of glasses, All rhyming surpasses When call'd by good claret in a bumper 'Squire Jones.