Oh! whether thee I closely hug
In honest can, or nut-brown jug,
Or in the tankard hail;
In barrel or in bottle pent,"
I give the gen'rous spirit vent,
Still may I feast on Ale.
But chief when to the cheerful glass,
From vessel pure, thy streamlets pass,
Then most thy charms prevail;
Then, then, I'll bet and take the odds,
That nectar, drink of Heathen gods,
Was poor compar'd to Ale.
Give me a bumper, fill it up:
See how it sparkles in the cup;
O how shall I regale!
Can any taste this drink divine,
And then compare rum, brandy, wine,
Or aught with nappy Ale?
Inspir'd by thee the warrior fights,
The lover woos, the poet writes,
And pens the pleasing tale;
And still in Britain's isle confest,
Naught animates the patriot's breast
Like gen'rous nappy Ale..
High church and low oft' raise a strife,
And oft' endanger limb and life,
Each studious to prevail;
Yet Whig and Tory, opposite
In all things else, doth both unite
In praise of nappy Ale.
Inspir'd by thee, shall Crispin' sing,
Or talk of freedom, church and king,
And balance Europe's scale:
While his rich landlord lays out schemes
Of wealth in golden South-Sea dreams,
Th' effects of nappy Ale.
O blest potation! still by thee,
And thy companion Liberty,
Doth health and mirth prevail;
Then let us crown the can, the glass,
Ev'n while these stanzas I endite,
The bar-bell's grateful sounds invite
Where joy can never fail.
Adieu, my Muse! adieu, I haste
To gratify my longing taste
With copious draughts of Ale.
LONG had Panthea felt love's secret smart,
And hope and fear alternate rul'd her heart;
Consenting glances had her flame confest,
(In woman's eyes her very soul's exprest)
Perjur'd Alexis saw the blushing maid,
He saw, he swore, he conquer'd and betray'd,
Another love now calls him from her arms,
His fickle heart another beauty warms;
Those oaths oft' whisper'd in Panthea's ears,
He now again to Galatea swears.
Beneath a beech th' abandon'd virgin laid,
In grateful solitude enjoys the shade;
There with faint voice she breath'd these moving. While sighing zephyrs shar'd her am'rous pains.
Pale settl'd sorrow hangs upon my brow, Dead are my charms, Alexis breaks his vow! Think, think, dear Shepherd! on the days you knew, When I was happy, when my swain was true; Think how thy looks and tongue are form'd to move, And think yet more that all my fault was love. 20 Ah! could you view me in this wretched stare! You might not love me, but you could net hate: Gay.]
Could you behold me in this conscious shade,
Where first thy vows, where first my love, was paid,
Worn out with watching, sullen with despair,
And see each eye swell with a gushing tear?
Could you behold me on this mossy bed,
From my pale cheek the livley crimson fled,
Which in my softer hours ye oft' have sworn,
With rosy beauty far outblush'd the morn;
Could you, untouch'd, this wretched object bear,
And would not lost Panthea claim a tear?
You could not, sure---tears from your eyes would steal,
And unawares thy tender soul reveal.
Ah! no; thy soul with cruelty is fraught,
No tenderness disturbs thy savage thought;
Sooner shall tigers spare the trembling lambs,
And wolves with pity hear their bleating dams;
Sooner shall vultures from their quarry fly,
Than false Alexis for Panthea sigh.
Thy bosom ne'er a tender thought confest;
Sure stubborn flint has arm'd thy cruel breast;
But hardest flints are worn by frequent rains,
And the soft drops dissolve their solid veins,
While thy relentless heart more hard appears,
And is not soften'd by a flood of tears.
Ah! what is love? Panthea's joys are gone,
Her liberty, her peace, her reason flown!
And when I view me in the watery glass,
I find Panthea now not what she was,...
As northern winds the new-blown roses blast,
And on the ground their fading ruins cast;
As sudden blights corrupt the ripen'd grain,
And of its verdure spoil the mournful plain;
So hapless love on blooming features preys,
So hapless love destroys our peaceful days.
Come, gentle Sleep! relieve these weary'd eyes,
All sorrow in thy soft embraces dies:
There, spite of all thy perjur'd vows, I find
Faithless Alexis languishingly kind:
Sometimes he leads me by the mazy stream,
And pleasingly deludes me in my dream ;
Sometimes he guides me to the secret grove,
Where all our looks, and all our talk, is love.
Oh could I thus consume each tedious day,..
And in sweet slumbers dream my life away!
But sleep, which now no more relieves these eyes
To my sad soul the dear deceit denies.
Why does the sun dart forth his cheerful rays?
Why do the woods resound with warbling lays?
Why does the rose her grateful fragrance yield,
And yellow cowslips paint the smiling field?
Why do the streams with murm'ring music flow?
And why do groves their friendly shade bestow?
Let sable clouds the cheerful sun deface,
Let mournful silence seize the feather'd race;
No more, ye Roses! grateful fragrance yield;
Droop, droop, ye Cowslips! in the blasted field;
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