Since the time will pass away And never mind to-morrow. WHEN I DRAIN THE ROSY BOWL. From the works of Anacreon, Sappho, &c., translated by the Rev. Francis Fawkes 8vo. London: 1761. WHEN I drain the rosy bowl, Joy exhilarates the soul; To the Nine I raise my song Ever fair, and ever young. Let the winds that murmur, sweep When I drink dull time away, When I drink the bowl profound, BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY. BUSY, curious, thirsty fly, Drink with me, and drink as I; Freely welcome to my cup. Both alike are mine and thine, Yet this difference we may see, Man seeks another when 'tis gone; And though allow'd its joys to share, 'Tis virtue here, hopes pleasure there. The old sheet copies of this ballad say, "Made extempore by a gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of his cup of ale." The gentleman is stated on some authorities to have been Vincent Bourne, and the date of the production 1744. It was set to music as a duet for two voices by Dr. Greene. The last verse in the above copy was added by the Rev. J. Plumtre. The song is also attributed to Oldys, the antiquary. WITH AN HONEST OLD FRIEND. WITH an honest old friend, and a merry old song, I envy no mortal tho' ever so great, Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate; WHAT IS WAR AND ALL ITS JOYS? THOMAS CHATTERTON, born 1752, died 1770. What is love without the bowl? A POT OF PORTER, HO! From the "Myrtle and the Vine," or Complete Vocal Library, vol. ii. A.d. 1800. WHEN to Old England I come home, Fal lal, fal lal la! What joy to see the tankard foam. Fal lal, fal lal la! When treading London's well-known ground, If e'er I feel my spirits tire, I haul my sail, look up around, In search of Whitbread's best entire. I spy the name of Calvert, Of Curtis, Cox, and Co. I give a cheer and bawl for't, "A pot of porter, ho!" When to Old England I come home, Where wine or water can be found, Fal lal, fal lal la! I've travell'd far the world around, Fal lal, fal lal la! D'YE mind me? I once was a sailor, And in different countries I've been, If I lie may I go for a tailor! But a thousand fine sights I have seen: I've been cramm'd with good things like a wallet, And I've guzzled more drink than a whale, But the very best stuff to my palate, Is a glass of your English good ale. Your doctors may boast of their lotions, For the physic that cures all diseases, When my trade was upon the salt ocean, For nothing on earth is so cheering As a bumper of English good ale. HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN. R. B. SHERIDAN. From the Comedy of "The School for Scandal." HERE'S to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Now to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, Drink to the lass, I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, Let the toast pass, &c. THIS BOTTLE'S THE SUN OF OUR TABLE. R. B. SHERIDAN. From the Comic Opera of "The Duenna." His beams are rosy wine; We planets that are not able Without his help to shine. Let mirth and glee abound! And shine as he goes round. |