THE BROWN JUG. DEAR Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale,) It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale;— So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale. wwwwwww THE GOBLET OF FRIENDSHIP. COME, pass round the glass, and let joy for a time And though Time is preparing to take to his wings, If you ask me to toast you, I'll fill to the brim, Juice of the grape I will now fill my cup, show you how well I can drink and sing; the man who would scorn now to sup e goblet of friendship ere Time takes wing. HERE'S TO THE MAIDEN. o the maiden of bashful fifteen, the bold and extravagant quean, she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Let the toast pass, &c. the maiden whose dimples we prize, e to her that has none, sir, the maid with a pair of black eyes, re's to her that's but one, sir. Let the toast pass, &c. the maid with a bosom of snow, her that's as brown as a berry; the wife with a face full of woe, re's to the girl that is merry. Let the toast pass, &c. e clumsy, or let her be slim, Let the toast pass, &c. Our hearts are fast held by a cable, While round the decanter is shoved, The ladies all rise to retire, We stand up and look very grave, My servant he knows I'm a toper, The saw-dust I puff from his coat, The cork out it sings in the throttle, But sweeter than Mars is his note. What gentleman coffee now chooses, The compliment comes from the fair, No gentleman coffee refuses, But not a man stirs from his chair. Though Frenchmen may do so, I bear it, 'Tis brutish politeness I think; While Monsieur we pay for his claret, Gay Hebe now shows in Apollo, A struggler 'twixt claret and wit, For Bacchus insists he shall swallow Six bumpers before he can sit; Ye fair, why so ill should we treat you, To part ere the bottle is won, At supper Apollo will meet you, And show you what Bacchus has done. FRIEND OF MY SOUL. FRIEND of my soul, this goblet sip, "Twill chase the pensive tear; *Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, Like her delusive beam Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade, But though the flower's decayed, It's fragrance is not o'er; But once when love's betrayed, THE CHARMS OF LIFE. I LOVE to see the flowing bowl And care in goblet drown'd; But, give me, gods, the social hour, The song, the jest, the laugh, the glee, If wine can yield one's care relief, If sparkling cup can banish grief, Be gay and push the bowl about, The song, &c. . PETER AND POULE. OUR vicar still preaches, that Peter and Poule Yet, whoop, Barnaby, off with thy liquor, Our vicar, he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip; THE JOYS OF DRINKING. POOR Joe, the miller, loved good ale, They'd kiss and sup, and take their cup, Tol de rol, &c. He ne'er would listen to advice, |