Then sling the flowing bowl:
Fond hopes arise,
The girls we prize
Shall bless each jovial soul;
The can, boys, bring;
We'll drink and sing,
While the foaming billows roll.
Though to the Spanish coast we're bound to steer, We'll still our rights maintain;
Then bear a hand, be steady, boys; soon we'll see Old England once again,
From shore to shore,
While cannons roar,
Our tars shall show
The haughty foe,
Britannia rules the main.
Then sling the flowing bowl, &c,
OH, father had a jolly knack
Of cooking up an almanack;
He could tell,
Of eclipses and wars,
Of Venus and Mars,
When plots were prevented,
Penny posts were invented,
Of Rome's dire reproaches,
And the first hackney coaches:
And he always foresaw
There'd be frost or be thaw;
Much sun or much sleet,
Much rain or much heat
On the fourth or the seventh,
The fifth or eleventh
The tenth or the fifteenth,
The twentieth or sixteenth,
But to guard against laughter,
He wisely did guess
There'd be more or less
Day before or day after.
Oh, father had a jolly knack,
Of cooking up an Almanack';
He could tell,
Very well,
Of aches and of pains,
In the loins and the reins,
In the hips and the toes,
In the back and the nose;
Of a red letter day,
When school-boys might play;
When tempest would clatter,
When earthquakes would shatter,
When comets would run,
And the world be undone,
But yet still there was laughter:
For people would cry,
Though he says we're to die,
It may be to-day, or day after.
Light and dark, high-water mark,
Signs the skies in, southing rising,
Verse terrific, hieroglyphic,
Astronomical, all so comical.
Oh, father had a jolly knack
Of cooking up an almanack.
THE SPRIGHTLY HORN.
THE sprightly horn awakes the morn, And bids the hunter rise,
The opening hound returns the sound, And Echo fills the skies.
See ruddy health, more dear than wealth,
On yon blue mountain's brow,
The neighing steed invokes our speed,
And reynard trembles now.
In ancient days, as story says,
The woods our fathers sought;
The rustic race adored the chase,
And hunted as they fought.
Come let's away, make no delay,
Enjoy the forest's charms;
Then o'er the bowl expand the soul,
And rest in Chloe's arms.
I LOCK'D UP ALL MY TREASURE
I LOCK'D up all my treasure,
I journey'd many a mile,
And by my grief did measure
The passing time awhile.
My business done and over,
I hasten'd back amain,
Like an expecting lover,
To view it once again.
But this delight was stifled,
As it began to dawn,
I found the casket rifled,
And all my treasure gone.
FAIR Ellen like a lily grew,
Was beauty's fav'rite flow'r,
Till falsehood chang'd her lovely hue,
She wither'd in an hour.
Antonio in her virgin breast
First rais'd a tender sigh;
His wish obtain'd, the lover blest,
Then left the maid to die.
YE topers all drink to the soul,
Of this right honest fellow;
Who always lov'd a flowing bowl,
And would in death be mellow.
The lamp of life he kindled up,
With spirit stout and glowing;
His heart inspir'd thus with a cup,
Ascends where nectar's flowing.
WILL YOU COME TO THE DALE.
WILL you come to the dale ?
Let your Mary prevail,
For oft I have heard you declare:
That you ne'er would decline
In these pleasures to join,
If Mary, dear Mary, was there.
Ah! why then refuse ?
Say, what can excuse
Your hasting our pastimes to share?
See, bright shines the sun,
The sports have beguu,
And Mary, dear Mary, is there.
Ah! why then delay ?
Art thou tempted to stray
By some rival more wealthy and fair?
Sure your heart would reply,
Its fond tenant am I,-
That Mary, dear Mary, is there.
But, alas! should it prove
That another you love,
And to church with your bride should repair;
Should some willow-tree wave
O'er a new-cover'd grave, Think Mary, dear Mary, lies there!
A BUMPER of good liquor
Will end a contest quicker,
Than Justice, Judge, or Vicar,
So fill each cheerful glass:
But if more deep the quarrel,
Why sooner drain the barrel,
Than be that hateful fellow,
That's crabbed when he's mellow.
THERE'S NO DECEIT IN WINE.
THE mighty conqu'ror of hearts
His power I here deny;
With all his flames, his fires and darts,
I champion-like defy,
I'll offer all my sacrifice,
Henceforth at Bacchus' shrine, The merry god ne'er tells us lies, There's no deceit in wine.
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