The Toper's Apology

I'm often ask'd by plodding souls.
And men of crafty tongue.
What joy I take in draining bowls.
And tippling all night long.
Now, tho' these cautious knaves I scorn,
For once I'll not disdain
To tell them why I sit till morn,
And fill my glass again:

'Tis by the glow my bumper gives
Life's picture's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
And softly sinks the shade;
Some happier tint still rises there
With every drop I drain—
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry
No frolic flight will take;
But round a bowl she'll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.
Then if the nymph will have her share,
Before she'll bless her swain—
Why that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

In life I've rung all changes too,—
Run every pleasure down,—
Tried all extremes of Fancy through,
And lived with half the town;
For me there's nothing new or rare,
Till wine deceives my brain—
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Then, many a lad I liked is dead,
And many a lass grown old;
And as the lesson strikes my head.
My weary heart grows cold.
But wine, awhile, drives off despair,
Nay, bids a hope remain—
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Then, nipp'd and vex'd at England's state
In these convulsive days,
I can't endure the ruin'd fate
My sober eye surveys;
But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare,
I see the gloom less plain—
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

I find too when I stint my glass,
And sit with sober air,
I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass,
Who treads the path of care;
Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear
Some coxcomb's fribbling strain—
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too,
With different holds entwine?
While nought but death can some undo,
There's some give way to wine,
With me the lighter head I wear
The lighter hangs the chain—
And that I think a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

And now I'll tell, to end my song.
At what I most repine;
This cursed war, or right or wrong.
Is war against all wine;
Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare
As juice of France or Spain—
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.