There's nothing our hearts with such joy can bewitch,

For on earth 'tis a pow'r that's divine; Without it we're wretched, tho' never so rich,

Nor is any man poor that has wine.

LXVII.

ON CANARY.

(By Alexander Brome.)

Of all the rare juices

That Bacchus or Ceres produces,

There's none that I can, nor dare I
Compare with the princely Canary.
For this is the thing

That a fancy infuses,

This first got a king,

And next the nine muses;

"Twas this made old poets so sprightly to sing,

And fill all the world with the glory and fame on't ; They Helicon call'd it, and the Thespian spring, But this was the drink, though they knew not the name on't.

Our cider and perry

May make a man mad, but not merry ;

It makes people windmill-pated,

And with crackers sophisticated;

And your hops, yest, and malt,

When they're mingled together,

Makes our fancies to halt,

Or reel any whither;

It stuffs up our brains with froth and with yest,

That if one would write but a verse for a bellman, He must study till Christmas for an eight shilling jest, These liquors won't raise, but drown, and o'erwhelm,

man.

Our drowsy metheglin

Was only ordain'd to inveigle in

The novice that knows not to drink yet,

But is fuddled before he can think it:

And your claret and white

Have a gunpowder fury,

They're of the French spright,

But they won't long endure you.

And your holiday Muscadine, Alicant and Tent, Have only this property and virtue that's fit in't, They'll make a man sleep till a preachment be spent, But we neither can warm our blood nor wit in't.

The bagrag and Rhenish

You must with ingredients replenish ;
'Tis a wine to please ladies and toys with,

But not for a man to rejoice with.

But 'tis sack makes the sport,

And who gains but that flavour, Though an abbess he court,

In his high-shoes he'll have her; .

"Tis this that advances the drinker and drawer:

Though the father came to town in his hobnails

and leather,

He turns it to velvet, and brings up an heir,

In the town in his chain, in the field with his feather.

LXVIII.

WITH FULL DOUBLE CUPS.

(From Early Naval Ballads, Percy Society's edition, pp. 96-8, also in D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, iii, 304-6.)

ALL hands up aloft,

Swab the coach fore and aft,

For the punch clubbers straight will be sitting;

For fear the ship rowl

Sling off a full bowl,

For our honour let all things be fitting;

In an ocean of punch

We to-night will all sail,

I'th' bowl we're in sea-room,

Enough, we ne'er fear:

Here's to thee, messmate.

Thanks, honest Tom,

"Tis a health to the king;

Whilst the larboard man drinks,

Let the starboard-man sing.

With full double cups

We'll liquor our chops,

And then we'll turn out,
With a who up, who, who;
But let's drink e'er we go,

But let's drink e'er we go.

The wind's veering aft,

Then loose ev'ry sail,

She'll bear all her topsails a-trip;
Heave the logg from the poop,
It blows a fresh gale,

And a just account on the board keep;

She runs the eight knots,

And eight cups, to my thinking,

That's a cup for each knot,

Must be fill'd for our drinking.

Here's to thee, skipper.

Thanks, honest John,

'Tis a health to the king,

Whilst the one is a drinking,

The other shall fill.

With full double cups,

We'll liquor our chops, &c.

The quartier must cun,

Whilst the fore-mast man steers,

Here's a health to each port where e'er bound;

Who delays, 'tis a bumper,

Shall be drub'd at the geers,

The depth of each cup therefore sound:

To our noble commander,