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Since the time will pass away

Spite of all our sorrow,
Let's be blithe and gay to-day,

And never mind to-morrow.
Bring the flask, the music bring,

Joy shall quickly find us ;
Sport and dance, and laugh, and sing,

And cast dull care behind us.

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.
When full cups my cares expel,
Sober counsel, then farewell!
Let the winds that murmur, sweep
All my sorrows to the deep.

When I drink dull time away,
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay,
Leads me to delightful bowers,
Full of fragrance, full of flowers.
When I quaff the sparkling wine,
And my locks with roses twine;
Then I praise life's rural scene,
Sweet, sequester'd, and serene.

When I drink the bowl profound,
(Richest fragrance flowing round)
And some lovely nymph detain,
Venus then inspires the strain.
When from goblets deep and wide,
I exhaust the gen'rous tide,
All my soul unbends-I play
Gamesome with the young and gay

BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY.
Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Could'st thou sip and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short, and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline ;
Thine's a summer, mine's no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.
Yet this difference we may see,
'Twixt the life of man and thee:
Thou art for this life alone,
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.

HENRY CAREY.
With an honest old friend, and a merry old song,
And a flask of old Port let me sit the night long;
And laugh at the malice of those who repine,
That they must swig porter, while I can drink wine.
I envy no mortal tho' ever so great,
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate ;
But what I abhor, and esteem as a curse,
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse.
Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay,
Let's merrily pass life's remainder away;
Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise,
For the more we are envied the higher we rise.

WHAT IS WAR AND ALL ITS JOYS?

Tuomas CHATTERTON, born 1752, died 1770.

What is war and all its joys ?
Useless mischief, empty noise ;
What are arms and trophies won ?
Spangles glittering in the sun.
Rosy Bacchus, give me wine, i
Happiness is only thine.
What is love without the bowl?
'Tis a languor of the soul ;
Crown'd with ivy, Venus charms,
Ivy courts me to her arms.
Bacchus, give me love and wine,
Happiness is only thine.

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,
What joy to see the tankard foam !
With heart so light, and frolic high,
I drink it off to Liberty!
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 !

Again I hope before I die,
Of England's can the taste to try;
For, many a league I'd go about,
To take a draught of Gifford's stout:
Ι

spy the name of Trueman,

Of Maddox, Meux, and Co.
The sight makes me a new man,

“A pot of porter, ho!”
When to Old England I come home,
What joy to see the tankard foam !
With heart so light, and frolic high,
I drink it off to liberty !

ENGLISH ALE.

From the “Myrtle and the Vine,"

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,

And ladies may talk of their tea; But I envy them none of their potions,

A glass of good stingo for me!
The doctor may sneer if he pleases,

But my recipe never will fail,
For the physic that cures all diseases,

Is a bumper of good English ale.
When my trade was upon the salt ocean,

Why there I had plenty of grog,
And I lik'd it, because I'd a notion

It set one's good spirits agog;
But since upon land I've been steering,

Experience has altered my tale,
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,
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty :

Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,

I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the damsel with none, sir;
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And now to the nymph with but one, sir :

Let the toast pass, &c.
Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,
Now to her that's as brown as a berry;
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that's merry:

Let the toast pass, &c.
For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill up a bumper, nay fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast 'em together:

Let the toast pass, &c.

THIS BOTTLE'S THE SUN OF OUR TABLE.

R. B. SHERIDAN. From the Comic Opera of “The Duenna."

This bottle's the sun of our table,

His beams are rosy wine;
We planets that are not able

Without his help to shine.
Let mirth and glee abound !

You'll soon grow bright

With borrow'd light,
And shine as he goes round.

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