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 Money-glass,
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 so stupid
As not to quit Cupid,
When called by good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye poets, who write,
And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brook,
Though all you get by't
Is a dinner ofttimes,
In reward of your rhymes,
With Humphrey 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 most 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,
Yet 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,
With 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 foxhunters 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 !