Page:Poets of John Company.djvu/108



Now for the hour that is sweetest of all, Sirs,
 * 'Tis sacred to mirth, to good humour, and wine,

Fairer than any that lazily crawl, Sirs,
 * Thro' dullardized space in the garish sunshine;

Haste then, and let not an instant be wasted,
 * For fleetly flies Time, and we can but ill spare it,—

To do it due honour or ever 'tis past yet.
 * Baptise its arrival in bumpers of Claret.


 * Then here's to the being still free and light-hearted,
 * Who ne'er cares o'er the woes of this world to repine.
 * But tho' he and false Fortune be long ago parted.
 * Still moistens his woes with a bumper of wine.

Soother of care and promoter of revels,
 * What'er be your ills, Claret ne'er comes amiss;

Take my receipt and the grimmest blue devils
 * Will beam like Hope's self, if ye plunge them in this;

Not the cheek of a beauty who saints might beguile. Sirs,
 * Her form nor her face, I can freely declare it

Could look now half so sweet in my eyes, as the smile. Sirs,
 * That dimples the cheek of my bumper of Claret.

I once heard a tale—from my Grannie I took it, Sirs,
 * How the great globe was erst covered with rain,

When all our poor dads, like blind pups in a bucket, Sirs,
 * Sank, and, as she said, ne'er came up again;

Ever since that, in respect to their memory,
 * Water I've hated—O Lord I can't bear it!

And I'm never myself after mentioning them, ere I
 * Wash out the thought with a bumper of Claret.