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With pride her footsteps I pursue,
The sole confusion I admire,
CUPID no more shall give me grief,
Or anxious cares oppress my soul ; While gen'rous Bacchus brings relief,
And drowns 'em in a flowing bowl.
Cælia, thy scorn I now despise,
Thy boasted empire I disown; This takes the brightness from thy eyes,
And makes it sparkle in my own.
THE MILITARY TOPER.
How stands the glass around ?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys ! How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound ! The trumpets sound :
* Who entitles it .A dithyrambick for two voices.'
The colours flying are, my boys,
Content with our hard fare, my boys,
Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys !
Damn fear, drink on, be jolly boys !
We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly.
Tis but in vain,
(I mean not to upbraid you, boys)
Send us to Him that made you, boys,
A bottle and kind landlady
THE SCHOOL OF ANACREON.
The festive board was met, the social band
My friends (began the sage) be this the rule, No brow austere must dare approach my school; Where Love and Bacchus jointly reign within, Old Care, begone! here sadness is a sin.
Tell me not the joys that wait
queen that gives soft wishes birth,
2 SONG LXI.
BY PAUL WHITEHEAD, ESQ.
When Bacchus, jolly god, invites
Whilst all around, with jocund glee,
Hence with cares, complaints, and frowning,
Welcome jollity and joy ;
Mirth this happy night employ.
Laugh and sing some good old strain; Drink a health to Love and Beauty;
May they long in triumph reign.
* In the opera of Love in a Village.
BY HUGH KELLY, ESQ.
While the bottle to humour and social delight
The smallest assistance can lend,
Or enlivens the mind of a friend :
Oh let me enjoy it, thou bountiful Pow'r!
That my time may deliciously pass ; And should Care ever think to intrude on the hour,
Scare the haggard away with a glass.
But, instead of a rational feast of the sense,
Should Discord preside o'er the bowl, And folly, debate, or contention commence,
From too great an expansion of soul :
Should the man I esteem, or the friend of my breast,
In the ivy feel nought but the rod;
And daringly sport with my God;
From my lips dash the poison, O merciful Pow'r !
Where the madness or blasphemy hung;
Parch quick on my infamous tongrie.