BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES.

Ye good fellows all, Who love to be told where good claret’s in store, Attend to the call Of one who’s ne’er frighted, But greatly delighted With six bottles more. Be sure you don’t pass The good house, Moneyglass, Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns, ’Twill well suit your humour— For, pray, what would you more, Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones? Ye lovers who pine For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair, Who whimper and whine For lilies and roses, With eyes, lips, and noses, Or tip of an ear! Come hither, I’ll show ye How Phillis and Chloe No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans; For what mortal’s so stupid As not to quit Cupid, When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones? Ye poets who write, And brag of your drinking famed Helicon’s brook,— Though all you get by it Is a dinner ofttimes, In reward for your rhymes, With Humphry the Duke,— Learn Bacchus to follow, And quit your Apollo, Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones: Our jingling of glasses Your rhyming surpasses When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. Ye soldiers so stout, With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin, Who make such a rout Of all your commanders, Who served us in Flanders, And eke at the Boyne,— Come leave off your rattling Of sieging and battling, And know you’d much better to sleep in whole bones; Were you sent to Gibraltar, Your notes you’d soon alter, And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. Ye clergy so wise, Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear, How worthy to rise! You preach once a week, But your tithes never seek Above once in a year! Come here without failing, And leave off your railing ’Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones; Says the text so divine, “What is life without wine?” Then away with the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones! Ye lawyers so just, Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead, How worthy of trust! You know black from white, You prefer wrong to right, As you chance to be fee’d:— Leave musty reports And forsake the king’s courts, Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones; Burn Salkeld and Ventris,[4] And all your damned entries, And away with the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones! Ye physical tribe Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace, Whene’er you prescribe, Have at your devotion, Pills, bolus, or potion, Be what will the case; Pray where is the need To purge, blister, and bleed? When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns That the forms of old Galen Are not so prevailing As mirth with good claret,—and bumpers, Squire Jones! Ye fox-hunters eke, That follow the call of the horn and the hound, Who your ladies forsake Before they’re awake, To beat up the brake Where the vermin is found:— Leave Piper and Blueman, Shrill Duchess and Trueman,— No music is found in such dissonant tones! Would you ravish your ears With the songs of the spheres, Hark away to the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones! Arthur Dawson (1700?–1775).