The Bottle

PUSH the Bottle about, name the Toast, and away,
With Wine be our Sentiments flowing;
We idly grow old while we drinking delay,
Be merry, my Bucks, and keep doing.
Keep doing I say, fill it up to the brink,
'Tis a Trouble to talk, 'tis a Trouble to think,
'Tis a Trouble—no, no!—tis a Pleasure to drink.
Prithee ring, we must have to'ther Bottle.

Our Classic is Bacchus, his Volumes prefer,
To all that's in old Aristotle;
But why, with quotations, shou'd we make a stir?
We'll stir about briskly the Bottle.
A Fool once to find how the World cou'd go round,
Leap'd into the deep where the puppy was drown'd,
But deep had he drank, he the secret had found,
Such wonders are work'd by a Bottle.

The Sportsman arous'd when the Horn harks away,
Shrill echo Tantwivy repeating,
His warm wishing Wife clings around him to stay,
But shouts put to silence entreating.
Yet what is his Chace to the Chace that we boast?
So, ho! here's a Bumper, hark, hark! to the Toast.
Hit it off, and be quick, lest the scent shou'd be lost,
And we're cast in the Chace of a Bottle.

Let Heroes or Neroes run mad after Fame,
We're charg'd and rang'd ready for battle;
Let Placemen perplex, and let Patriots declaim,
Let both be indulg'd in their prattle;
But Preachers o'er Liquor we always confute,
Without 'tis the Toast, at our meetings we're mute,
For what, without Wine, can be worth a dispute,
Except 'tis a Short-measure Bottle.

Shou'd Sickness with sadd'ning Captivity join,
The Ancients I'll equal in thinking;
But all my Philosophy shou'd be my Wine,
Despair I defy when I'm drinking.
Stood Death like a Drawer to wait on me home,
Or, Bailiff-like, dare he rush into my room,
I'd try for one moment to tip him a Hum,
While I bumper'd the last of my Bottle.