The Toper

YE lads of true spirit pay courtship to Claret,
Released from the trouble of thinking;
A fool long ago said, we nothing cou'd know,—
The fellow knew nothing of drinking.
To pore over Plato,
Or practice with Cato,
Dispassionates, dunces might make us;
But men now more wise,
Self-denial despise,
And live by the lessons of Bacchus.

Big wigg'd, in fine coach, see the Doctor approach,
And solemnly up the stairs pace,
Gravely smell on his cane, apply finger to vein,
And count the repeats with grimaces.
As he holds pen in hand,
Life and Death's at a stand,
A toss-up which party will take us;
Away with his cant,
No prescription we want,
But the nourishing nostrums of Bacchus.

We jollily join in the practice of Wine,
While misers 'midst millions are pining;
While ladies are scorning, and lovers are mourning,
We laugh at wealth, wenching and whining.
Drink, drink, now 'tis prime,
Toss a bottle to Time,
He'll not make such haste to o'ertake us;
His threats we prevent,
And his cracks we cement,
By the styptical Balsam of Bacchus.

What work there is made, by the news-paper trade,
Of this man and t'other man's station;
The Ins are all bad, and the Outs are all mad,
In and Out is the cry of the nation.
The politic patter,
Which both parties chatter,
From bumpering freely shan't shake us;
With half-pints in hand,
Independent we'll stand,
To defend Magna Charta of Bacchus.

Be your motion well tim'd, you're charg'd and you're prim'd,
Have a care!—Right and left, and make ready—
Right hand to glass join—at lips rest the wine—
But be in your exercise steady.
Our levels we boast,
When our women we toast,
May graciously they undertake us;
No more we desire,
So drink and give fire,
And volley to BEAUTY and BACCHUS.