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From my sight let the curse be eternally driv'n,

Where my reason so fatally stray'd ; That no more I may offer an insult to Heav'n,

Or give man a cause to upbraid.




What dreaming drone was ever blest

By thinking of the morrow?
To-day be mine-I leave the rest

To all the fools of sorrow :
Give me the mind, that mocks at care ;

The heart, its own defender;
The spirits that are light as air,

And never beat surrender.

On comes the foe—to arms—to arms—

We meet—'tis death or glory :
'Tis victory in all her charms,

Or fame in Britain's story :
Dear native land! thy fortunes frown,

And ruffians would enslave thee :
Thou land of honour and renown,

Who would not die to save thee ?

'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball ;

And me it better pleases
In battle with the brave to fall,
Than die of cold diseases


Than drivel on in elbow-chair,

With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of akes and cares,

Nor longer lov'd nor needed.

But thou-dark is thy flowing hair,

Thine eye with fire is streaming ;
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,

Health sits in triumph beaming:
Thou, brother soldier, fill the wine,

Fill high the wine to beauty;
Love, friendship, honour, all are thine,

Thy country and thy duty !



Who thirsts for more knowledge is welcome to roam,

seek a new clime who is wretched at home;
Who of pleasure or folly has not had his fill,
May quit poor Old England whenever he will;
But nothing shall tempt me to cross the salt main,
For change I'm too steady, and rambling is pain.

Old England, brave boys, good enough is for me,
Where my thoughts I can speak, where by birth-right

I'm free;
Whatever I wish for, now comes at my call,
I can roam in my fields, I can feast in my hall ;
My time is my own, I can do as I will,
I have children that prattle, a wife that is still.

1.feel that I'm happy, though taxes run high,
I want no exotics, so easy am I;
I'm alive to my friends, and at peace with the dead,
With party and state I ne'er trouble my head ;
Contention I hate, and my glass I love most,
When the King and Old England are nam'd as the toast.



WHENE’ER the gods, like us below,

To keep it up design,
Their bowls do with rich nectar flow,

Which makes them more divine :
Since drinking dignifies the soul,
Let's push about the flowing bowl.

The glitt'ring star and ribbon blue

That deck the courtier's breast,
May hide a heart of sablest hue,

Though by its king carest :
Let such in pride and splendour roll,
We're happier o’er our flowing bowl.

For liberty let patriots rave,

And ban the courtly crew,
Because, like them, they cannot have

The loaves and fishes 100 :
I care not who divides the coal,
So I but share a flowing bowl.

The son he wants old square-toes gone,

And miss is mad to wed ;
The doctor wants you to be sick,

The undertaker dead :
All have their wants, from pole to pole,
I want an ever-flowing bowl.


In the social amusements of life let me live,
Prove ev'ry delight, love and friendship can give,
Where easy good-nature gives converse a zest,
Where sense in the light robe of humour is drest ;
Where harmony, beauty, and reason combine,
Our souls to improve, and our senses refine.

At the festival board, where my Phoebe can share
The jest which her pureness unsullied may hear,
Unblushing enjay, unrepining approve,
While Damon toasts freely to friendship and love;
While harmony, beauty, and reason combine,
Our souls to improve, and our senses refine.

Time was meant for a blessing, not dealt as a curse,
The troubles of life are by pining made worse ;
The sullen recluse

my plan,
But I'll live, and I'll love, and I'll laugh while I can ;
While harmony, beauty, and reason combine,
Our souls to improve, and our senses refine.

may disrelish


Let the waiter bring clean glasses,

With a fresh supply of wine ; For I see by all your faces,

In my wishes you will join.

It is not the charms of beauty,

Which I purpose to proclaim ; We a while will leave that duty,

For a more prevailing theme.

To the health I'm now proposing,

Let's have one full glass at least ; No one here can think’t imposing

Tis the founder of the feast !



CARE, thou canker of our joys,

Now thy tyrant reign is o’er ; Fill the mystic bowl, my boys,

Join the bacchanalian roar.


Seize the villain, plunge him in,

See the hated miscreant dies : Mirth and all thy train come in, Banish

sorrow, tears, and sighs.

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