A Toast

WHEN running Life's Race,
We gallop apace,
Each strives to be first at the Post;
Mount Hope with Catch-weights,
For Game's Give-and-take Plates,
And pray what is Fame but a Toast?

The Taste of our days
Is poaching for praise,
All Men of their Services boast;
The Ladies by Dress,
The same ardour express,
Each wou'd if she cou'd be a Toast.

Both Sexes agree,
Over Wine to be free,
For Freedom's an Englishman's boast;
As freely we think,
So as freely we drink,
And a Sentiment give for a Toast.

What is Life? prithee say,
But a Glass and away,
While Health is our ruddy-fac'd Host;
But when we abuse him,
We're certain to lose him,
By taking too much of a Toast.

These Common-place Rhimes
Suit Common-place Times,
Who now can of Genius boast?—
Why, really, I think
'Tis a Science to drink,
And there's Genius in giving a Toast.

Even Politics fail,
Altercation grows stale,
Of what now can either side boast?
No matter to us,
All their Farce and their Fuss,
Deserves not the name of a Toast.

The Riots and Routs
Of the Ins and the Outs,
Is only a newspaper roast;
Of Cricket I sing,
In and Out there's the thing,
And there I'll attempt a new Toast.

May our Innings be long,
May our bowling be strong,
Middle-wicket I chuse for my post;
Come, bumper away,
'Twixt the Stumps your Balls play,
And win the Game Love—that's the Toast.