THE CHARMS of MELODY, SONG 76

Contented I am and contented I'll be: For what more can this world afford, Than a girl who will sociably sit on me, And a cellar that's plenteously stor'd? My brave boys, &c.

My vault-door is open. Descend ev'ry guest: Tap that cask: ay, that wine we will try: 'Tis as sweet as the lips of your love to the taste, And as bright as her cheeks to the eye.

In a piece of slit hoop, I my candle have stuck, 'Twill light us each bottle to hand. The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke, For I hate that a bumper should stand.

Astride on a but, as a but should be strod, I fit my companions among, Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good-fellow's god, And a sentiment give, or a song.

We are dry where we sit, tho' the oozing drops seem The moist walls with wet pearls to emboss. From the arch, mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream, Like stucco-work cut out of moss.

My cellar's my camp; my soldier my flasks, All gloriously rang'd in review. When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks, As kingdoms I've yet to subdue.

I charge glass in hand, and my empire maintain, No ancient more patriot-like bled; Each drop in desence of delight I will drain, And myself for my bucks I'll drink dead,

Sound that pipe, 'tis in tune, and those bins are well fill'd, View the heap of champaigne in your rear; Yon bottles are burgundy, see how they're pil'd, Like artillery, tier over tier.

'Tis my will, when I die, not a tear shall be shed: No "Hic jacet" be grav'd on my stone: But pour o'er my coffin a bumper of red, And write that "His drinking is done."