The Sentiment Song

DINNER o'er, and Grace said, we'll for Business prepare,
Arrang'd right and left in support of the Chair,
We'll Chorus our Song as the circling Toast passes,
And manage our Bumpers as Musical Glasses.
Sing Tantararara Toast all.

To your Lips, my Convivials, the Burgundy lift,
May we never want Courage when put to a Shift:—
Here's what Tars dislike, and what Ladies like best;—
What's that?—you may whisper, why 'tis to be press'd!

Ye Fowlers who eager at Partridges aim,
Don't mark the maim'd Covey, but mind better Game;
'Tis Beauty's the sport to repay Sportsmen's trouble,
And there may our Pointers stand stiff in the Stubble.

To Game we give Law, and Game Laws we have skill in,—
Here's Love's Laws, and they who those Laws are fulfilling.
But never may Damsels demur to our sport,
Nor we suffer Nonsuits when call'd into Court.

As the Indians are warring, our Game we must flush,
On our breasts, as we lye, we present thro' a Bush—
Here's the Nest in that Bush, and the Bird-nesting Lover;
Here's Middlesex Bush-fighting,—rest and recover.

Asthmatical Gluttons exist but to eat,
They purchase repletions at each Turtle treat;
Love's feast boasts a flavour unknown to made dishes—
Here's Life's Dainty, dress'd with the sweet sauce of Kisses.

Fair befall ev'ry Lass, fair may fine Ladies fall,
No colour I'll fix on, but drink to them all;
The black, the brunette, and the golden-lock'd Dame—
The Lock of all Locks, and unlocking the same.

More upright fore-knowledge that Lock is commanding,
Than all other Locks, aye, or Locke's understanding:
That Lock has the Casket of Cupid within it,
So—Here's to the Key Lads,—the Critical Minute.

Lads pour out Libations from Bottles and Bowls,
The Mother of All-Saints is drank by All-Souls.—
Here's the Down Bed of Beauty which upraises Man,
And beneath the Thatch'd-House the miraculous Can.

The Dock-Yard which furnishes Great Britain's Fleets,
The Bookbinders Wifes manufact'ring in Sheets,
The Brown Female-Reaper, who dares undertake her?
And the Wife of Will Wattle—The neat Basket-maker.

Here's Bathsheba's Cockpit where David stood Centry;
Eve's Custom-house, where Adam made the first Entry;
The pleasant plac'd Water-fall' midst Bushy Park;
The Nick makes the Tail stand, the Farrier's Wife's Mark.

That the Hungry be fill'd with rich Things let us say;
And well pleas'd the Rich be sent empty away.—
The Miller's Wife's Music;—the Lass that's Lamb-like;—
And Fence of the Farmer on Top of Love's Dike.

But why from this round-about phrase must be guess'd,
What in one single syllable's better express'd;
That syllable then I my Sentiment call,
So here's to that word, which is, one word for all.
Sing Tantararara Toast all.