Then Apollo invite, that fam'd musical blade,
Who dispels chequer'd scenes which in life may pervade,
And who bears on his arms this lov'd motto or scroll,
"A true friend, and a song, and a bottle or bowl."
The tube of content I'll whiff out with my friend,
While concord and harmony round us attend,
The enjoyment of life, and a zest to the whole,
Is a friend and a song, and a bottle or bowl.
As a sweet golden rule, let temp'rance abound,
Be reason the guide as the glass is put round;
And while freedom and merit replenish the whole,
Here's our friend and a song, and a bottle or bowl!
A PLAGUE on those mortals whom demons bewitch,
To starve themselves living, in hopes to die rich!
Here goes the last guinea, I change it with glee,
For my bottle and bird have more raptures for me.
For my bottle, &c.
This takes away hunger; the other conspires,
To warm me for Phillis with matchless desires.
Then give me, ye gods, while existence I court,
My bird of true game, and my bottle of port.
When time calls to lead up the dog and the gun,
To the stubble, at day-break, with Dido I run ;
There spring the brown covey, and round as they fly,
With an arm ever fatal bring down a supply.
With an arm, &c.
Returning, if chance throws a friend in the way,
We talk of the pleasures and toils of the day;
When I press him sincere, to partake of my sport,
My delicate bird, and my bottle of port.
'Tis wine, rosy wine, gives new comforts to men,
Anacreon look'd plump at an hundred and ten.
With the muse he could sport as the landscape he trod,
And compose his sweet lays with the soul of the god.
And compose, &c.
This theme, so delightful and pleasing to me,
As the sweets of the spring to the taste of the bee;
Like the rosy-brow'd bard, let me constantly sport,
O'er the bird of true game, and my bottle of port.
Now winter strips with ruthless haste,
The poplar's leafy pride;
Deforms the vale with chilling blast,
And checks the crystal tide.
While each fair flow'r of brightest glow,
Lies deep entomb'd in ice and snow.
Yet, luckless blossoms, cease to claim
The sympathetic lay,
In Fanny's face your colours beam,
And sweeter hue's display;
Bright azure shines in either eye,
Her lips the rose's tints defy.
No more let Philomela wail,
And let the lark be still,
While Fanny's dearest notes prevail,
And softer warblings thrill;
Her lips exhale the breath of spring,
Fresh winnow'd by the zephyr's wing.
And when the melting kiss I snatch,
And hold her to my heart,
The cherry and the juicy peach
Not half such sweets impart.
What then! for May have I to care,
While spring and summer bloom in her.
Composed by Mr. Osario, in honour of the Vingts un Club.
TO give company zest, and enlighten the mind,
A few chosen mortals, of manners refin'd,
Joining mirth to instruction, and folly to shun,
Assisted in forming the club of Vingts un.
The muses and sciences call'd to their aid,
With reasons firm base for their corner-stone laid;
Light sophistry shrunk from the mirror of truth, -
And the wisdom of age added pleasures to youth.
Calliopes' strains, warm'd by emulous glow,
Latent genius draws forth in notes timid and low;
Nor Palymnia, nor Clio, invok'd are in vain,
And improvements and knowledge advance in their
train...
Graver subjects pass'd by, bright Thalia to thee-
We breathe the gay song, and enlivening glee;
The purple libations to Bacchus we send,
Whilst prudence still points out the hour we end.
Since thus then we're met, may no party intrude,
No partiality guide us, nor passion be rude :
But thus hand in hand, join'd like brothers in love,
May the Vingt un a pattern of harmony prove..
A favourite Song sung by Mrs. Bland.
Poor Kate, with nosegay basket, trim
Sent forth a plaintive cry ;
Her varied flowers round the brim,
She bid each trav'ler buy;
But heedless pass'd the giddy throng,
In vain she hop'd to win ;
She sigh'd and held her basket low,
Sure poverty's a sin.
She silent grieves, but perseveres,
By hunger pinch'd, and cold;
A brute who saw her falling tears
Grew impudent and bold;
By force he press'd the modest maid,
Who pity wish'd to win,
Who struggled, blush'd, and frowning said,
So poverty's a sin.
Tom Truelove flush'd with golden ore,
His constant girl he knew;
Just cried-'tis lucky I'm on shore,
To her relief he flew ;
His cudgel laid th'assailant low,
While Tom did thus begin,
D'ye mind me lubber, don't ye
Is poverty a sin ?
Then bore his prize, with love and pride,
Beneath his conquering arm,
And swore he'd keep her by his side,
And shield her safe from harm;
Thy sails says Tom shake in the wind,
Thy cheeks look pale and thin;
But, cheer my lass, the breeze is kind,
For poverty's no sin.
Kate told him all her friends were dead,
And she distress'd and low;
Avast he cried, enough is said,
His heart felt all her woe:
Here take this gold, 'tis all your own,
'Twas you that made me win;
Rigg'd like a lady, Kate next day
Was made by Tom a wife,
And cheerly passes life away,
They know no care nor strife;
To her the needy tell their grief,
Who asks is sure to win,
She says, and always gives relief-
That poverty's no sin.
A BARBER I am, and I dress for the crown,
With my frizzle deedle dum, and my frizzle deedle
Though you see by my dressing I'm just tumbled down,
Tweedle deedle dum, tweedie deedle dec;
Though my living I get, sirs, by frizzing the nob,
You see that at times, sirs, I get an odd job,
With my tweedle deedle dum, and tweedle deedle dee.
Oh, poor Dicky, poor Dicky the rover!
Was ever poor barber so neatly done over?
Oh! oh! oh! over, so neatly done over!
Ye barbers and clerks who are given to roam,
With my frizzle, &c.
Take care how you venture too far from your home,
Tweedle deedle dum, &c.
Or else you may meet with a new-fashion'd dressing, And, instead of a job, get a damnable dressing, With my tweedle dum, &c.
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