THE SAILOR's MEDLEY, SONG

Ye lads of true spirit, pay courtship to claret, Releas'd from the trouble of thinking: A fool long ago said we could nothing know; The fellow knew nothing of drinking. To pore over Plato, or practise with Cato, Dispassionate dunces might make us: But men, now more wise, self-denial despise, And live by the lessons of Bacchus.

Big-wig'd, in fine coach, see the doctor approach; He solemnly up the stairs paces, Looks grave—smells his cane—applies finger to vein. And counts the repeats with grimaces. As he holds pen in hand, life and death are at stand— A toss-up which party shall take us. Away with such cant—no prescriptions we want, But the nourishing nostrum of Bacchus.

We jollily join in the practice of wine, While misers 'midst plenty are pining; While ladies are scorning, and lovers are mourning, We laugh at wealth, wenching, and whining. Drink, drink, now 'tis prime; toss a bottle to time, He'll not make such haste to o'ertake us; His threats we prevent, and his cracks we cement, By the styptical balsam of Bacchus.

What works is there made by the newspaper trade, Of this man's and t'other mans station! The Ins are all bad, and the outs are all mad, In and out is the cry of the nation. The politic patter which both parties chatter, From bumpering freely shan't shake us: With half pints in hand, independent we'll stand, To defend Magna Charta of Bacchus.

Be your motions well tim'd; be all charg'd and all prim'd: Have a care—right and left—and make ready. Right hand to glass join—at your lips rest your wine— Be all in your exercise steady. Our levels we boast, when our women we toast; May graciously they undertake us! No more we desire—so drink and give fire, A volley to Beauty and Bacchus.