Part 1

HILARIA.

HILARIA.

THE FESTIVE BOARD.

“Mirth, admit me of thy crew.”

MILTON.

——“Vino pellite curas.”

HOR.

London: _PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR._

1798.

PRELIMINARY.

_Tres mihi convivæ prope dissentire videntur,_ _Poscentes vario multum diversa palato._

HOR.

We, for the most part, differ in our notions of pleasure; one man’s delight is another’s aversion: but felicity is the aim of all. Where then shall we find it? a celebrated poet observes, “’tis no where to be found, or everywhere.” I say with an air of triumph, which the experience of a laughing life has imparted, the delights of love and joys of wine, happily blended, will enable us to attain the summit of human enjoyment. Would you meliorate the condition of the mind, and give to the body its best energies; fly to the circle of convivial gaiety for the one, and to the arms of indulgent beauty for the other—Life without this charming union, is like wine without fermentation, perfectly insipid—for the vinosity of wine, as well as the libidinosity of carnal nature, is produced (as Doctor Johnson, that leviathan of literature would have said) by the same exquisite process—_fermentation_.——So much in ancient as well as modern times has been said and sung of love and wine, that novelty on these topics cannot be expected. I am an enemy to every species of innovation; but more particularly to that lately broached by the celebrated original four-legg’d, long-tail’d, philosopher, Lord Monboddo, Who is full of regret because we do not mix water with our wine.

Read with sober attention what his lordship says on this subject.

“As, by Isis, a plant was discovered, which furnished bread to man; so by Osiris, her husband and brother, an art was invented of making drink for man: this art is what is called fermentation, which he applied to the use of the grape; and so first made wine: which, though it has been very much abused, as almost every production of nature and art has been by man, and, therefore, is very properly styled by Milton, _The sweet poison of misused wine_. It may be applied to the most useful purposes, for it is the best cordial of old age: and at all times of life it enlivens the spirits; and, therefore, Bacchus is called _Lætitiæ Dator_; and it cherishes the stomach: _but it is a great abuse of this liquor, in modern times_, to drink it pure, without mixture of water, _which, I am sorry to observe so much practised in Britain_.”—Horace says this ironically.

Notwithstanding this opinion, the gentlemen of Britain, whose fondness for pure, unadulterated, wine, cannot be doubted, will continue the old custom of drinking a bumper of wine with the first toast after dinner, to the first thing that ever was created for the enjoyment of their sex.

Solomon, who was at least as wise as the author in question, says, “_Give strong drink to him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts_:” “Let him drink and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.”

Burns, the admirable Scots bard, agreed with Solomon, and agreed with himself also, to versify these doctrines:

“Give him strong drink until he wink, That’s sinking in despair; And liquor good to fire his blood, That’s prest with grief and care: There let him bouse, and deep carouse, With bumpers flowing o’er, Till he forgets—his loves or debts, And minds his griefs no more.”

But what are the vital elixirs, gold tinctures, wonder-working essences, electricity, and animal magnetism, compared to the properties of wine? Dr. Franklin, a name dear to political liberty, has recorded a curious fact concerning the effects of wine. When in France he received a quantity of Madeira, that had been bottled in Virginia: in some of the bottles he found a few dead flies, which he exposed to the warm sun in the month of July, and, in less than three hours, these apparently dead animals recovered life, which had been so long suspended. The philosopher then asks whether such a process might not be employed with regard to man? if that be the case, I can imagine, adds he, no greater pleasure, than to cause myself to be immersed along with a few friends in Madeira wine, (not wine and water,) and to again called to life, at the end of fifty, or more years, by the genial solar rays of my native country; only that I may see what improvement the state has made, and what changes time has brought along with it.

I cannot conclude these few observations on the virtues of wine, without introducing the sentiment of another philosophical gentleman. A modern practitioner of considerable medical skill, has given an opinion worthy the attention of the convivial world: he tells us, if our vital sensation require to be much exalted, neither alembics nor crucibles are necessary for that purpose; Nature herself has provided for us that most excellent spirit—wine, which exceeds all those prepared by the art of man: if there be any thing in the world which one can call the _prima materia_, that contains the spirit of the earth in an incorporated form, it is certainly this noble production:

“With genial joy to warm the soul, “Bright Helen mix’d a mirth-inspiring bowl.”

ODYSSEY.

To promote hilarity, to keep up the good humour of life, to help digestion by the salutary exercise of the risible faculty, the compositions that follow were chiefly written;—the cynic, the sanctified hypocrite, and the misanthrope, will eagerly condemn many of them, but the man of the world, who thinks liberally, and acts up to his feelings, the _bon vivant_, the friend of the fair sex, the bottle and song, will, it is hoped and presumed, place them under their private care and protection.

PAT-RIOT, A REVOLUTIONARY SONG.

I.

Och! my name is Pat Riot, And I’m never easy; For when all is quiet, It turns my head crazy; So to kick up a dust, By my soul is delighting; Then to lay it again, I fall to without fighting.

_Chorus_—Row, row, row, row, row, row.

II.

Nought but times topsy turvy Suit my constitution; And all that I want, is A snug Revolution: Then in rank and in riches I’ll equal my betters; And a long list of creditors Change into debtors.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

III.

I dare not be loyal, For this loyal reason; My tutor, Tom Paine, Tells me loyalty’s treason: And Priestley my Faith has Shook to its foundation; So I’ve no prospect on earth But eternal damnation.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

IV.

In this plight I’ve a plan, Tho’ it’s not ripe for broaching; But between you and me, ’Tis a little encroaching; By a stroke—slight of hand— To surprize all beholders: Why I mean to take off The king’s head from his shoulders.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

V.

Then the crown, d’ye see, I wou’d lay on a shelf, Sir; Tho’ it fits me as if it Was made for myself, Sir: Och! good luck to the sound, How the dumb bells will ring, Sir, When I’ve made all men equal, And made myself king, Sir!

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

VI.

Just to guard off th’effect Of fell lightning and thunder, That together split churches And steeples asunder, I mean to pull down All old orthodox structures; ’Cause Priestley says chapels Are Heaven’s conductors.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

VII.

To see chapels, from churches, Like Phœnixes rising, Good souls, the dissenters Wou’d deem it surprising, And, grateful to me, They wou’d down on their knees too, Who hate both a church And a chapel of ease too.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

VIII.

Now the lands of the church, That feed fat and lean preachers, By their leaves, I’ll bestow On the puritan teachers: Of their tithes, and their off’rings, And gifts, I’ll bereave ’em; And nought but their stomachs And consciences leave ’em.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

IX.

The law long establish’d No longer shall bind me; With my father before, Or my father behind me, I’ve nothing to do: Then your bother pray cease, Sir; I’ll lay down the law By a breach of the peace, Sir.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

X.

Since the law and the gospel I’ve taken by storm, Sir, Physicians shall swallow My pills of reform, Sir; I’ll take off their wigs, Canes, fees, and degrees; And poison the rogues With their own recipes.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

XI.

Since the Commons are cyphers, The Lords but nick-names, Sir, I mean to prorogue ’em All into the Thames, Sir; And, lest folks should say I don’t humanely treat ’em, Doctor Hawes and cork jackets At Gravesend shall meet ’em.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

XII.

I’ll abolish all titles Mankind may inherit; From the fountain of honour, Worth, virtue, and merit: I’m a naked reformer: The doctrine I preach, is To take coats of arms off Shirts, waistcoats, and breeches.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

XIII.

Thus age, youth, and beauty, Miss, master, and madam, All decently figg’d By the taylor of Adam: Why this is not new; Because high and low station, Were all in confusion Before the creation.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

XIV.

By Jasus, to think how ’Twou’d tickle the devil, To see from a mountain, All things on a level; For the devil’s a patriot Not over nice, Sir, And he hates all distinctions ’Twixt virtue and vice, Sir.

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

XV.

Here’s long life after death To all hot-headed fellows, Who night and day work at The devil’s big bellows: What charming confusion, What fine botheration, To blow up the coals, And extinguish the nation!

_Chorus_—Row, row, &c.

THE MARRIAGE MORN.

Tune, _The Merry Dance_.

The marriage morn I can’t forget, My senses teem’d with _new delight_; Time, cry’d I, haste the coming night, And Hymen, give me sweet Lisette: I whisper’d softly in her ear, And said, the GOD of NIGHT draws near. Oh, how she look’d! Oh, how she smil’d! Oh, how she sigh’d! She sigh’d—then spent a joyful tear.

Now nuptial Night her curtain drew, And Cupid’s mandate was, “Commence “With ardour, break the virgin fence;” Then to the bed sweet Lisette flew— ’Twas heav’n to view her when she lay, And hear her cry, Come to me, pray; Oh, how I feel! Oh, how I pant! Oh, I shall die!— Shall die before the break of day!

Soon Manhood rose with furious gust; And Mars, when he lewd Venus view’d, Ne’er felt his pow’r so closely screw’d Up to the standing post of Lust: But when the stranger to her sight Sweet Lisette saw in rampant plight, Oh, how she scream’d! Oh, how she scream’d! Oh, how she scream’d! She scream’d—then grasp’d the dear delight.

Now lustful Nature eager grew, And longer could not wanton toy; So rushing up the path of joy, Quick from the fount Love’s liquor flew: At morn, she cry’d, full three times three The vivid stream I’ve felt from thee; Oh, how I’m eas’d! Oh, how I’m pleas’d! Oh, how I’m charm’d! I’m charm’d with rapt’rous three times three!

CONVIVIAL.

Tune, _Mrs. Casey_.

When round reflection foggy Care His dreary damp disperses, And Prudence, with _didactic_ air, Her cautious code rehearses; Then grant us, gods, some glowing wine, Such foes of glee to banish; ’Twill make our heart’s _horizon_ shine, And ev’ry vapour vanish.

CHORUS.

Then laugh and drink, And never think; Each frisky festive fellow Will seize the time, The season’s prime, T’ enjoy the fruit while mellow.

The heights of love we can’t attain, Till wine’s electric potion Reach the summit of the brain, To quicken Fancy’s motion: Then Nature’s _still_, with rapid flow, In _am’rous fermentation_, Fills thro’ THE WORM the _vat_ below With _luscious distillation_.

When safe arriv’d our LATTER END, And time to dust shall grind us, Our _atoms_ can’t the eyes offend Of neighbours left behind us: If with the heart-expanding bowl, Inspiring love and laughter, We soak the body and the soul, ’Twill _lay_ the dust _hereafter_.

The hardy tars more valiant fight, The soldiers sally quicker, The poets with more _spirit_ write, When charg’d with _conqu’ring liquor_: And to sorrow-sinking hearts Wine’s the true salvation; For, take enough, and soon departs _Suspended animation_.

His journey soon must end, they say, Who drives thro’ life so quickly; And, ere in years his hair turn gray, His body will be sickly: If _Velnos’ Syrup_ he pursue, ’Twill strengthen trunk and twig, Sir; And if his hair should change its hue, He can but mount a wig, Sir.

Kind Fortune, fix the jolly soul On Plenty’s full-plum’d pinion, To soar beyond the sad control Of Poverty’s dominion; And when, with eager fatal claw, You take him by the _throttle_, His precious cork of life to draw, O Death! don’t _shake_ the _bottle_.

THE HIGH-METTLED P⸺O.

Tune, _The Race Horse_.

View the lass lewd and lovely, of high sporting race, Prepar’d to encounter the lustful embrace; Her t—s wide extended, her tempting breasts bare, The lustful receiver conceal’d by black hair: While ruddy and rampant, erecting his crest, With ardour rebounding from knee to the breast, The signal observ’d, firmly fix’d on his seat, The high-mettled P⸺o first starts for the heat. Full stretch’d, crossing, justling, see onward they rush, And o’er the same ground three times speedily push; Till weary’d, worn out, we behold P⸺o tame, As he crawls off the course lifeless, jaded, and lame. A short time elaps’d, when examin’d his case, He’s found sorely injur’d by running the race; And the high mettl’d P⸺o, erst proud and elate, Is pronounc’d by the knowing ones in for the plate.

Confin’d to the stable, shut out from the stud, Restrain’d in his diet, and oft losing blood, He’s plaister’d and poultic’d, in linen rags rob’d, Fir’d, purg’d, and bolus’d, cut, syring’d, and prob’d; Till burning like stones that are turn’d into lime, Alas! luckless P⸺o’s cut off in his prime. Lament the hard fate this sad story informs, The high-mettl’d P⸺o’s made food for the worms.

BOTANY BAY.

Tune, _Liberty Hall_.

Britannia, fair guardian of this favour’d land, Lately sanction’d a scheme, in full Cabinet plann’d, For transporting her sons who from honour dare stray, To that sweet spot terrestrial, term’d BOTANY BAY. Toll de roll, &c.

Now this BAY, by some blockheads we’ve sagely been told, Was unknown to the fam’d navigators of old; But this I deny, in terms homely and blunt, For BOTANY BAY is the spot we call ⸺. Toll de roll, &c.

Our ancestor Adam, ’tis past any doubt, Was the famous Columbus that found the spot out; He brav’d ev’ry billow, rock, quicksand, and shore, To steer thro’ THE PASSAGE none ere steer’d before. Toll de roll, &c.

Kind Nature, ere Adam had push’d off to sea, Bid him be of good cheer, for his pilot she’d be: Then his cables he slipp’d, and STOOD STRAIGHT for the BAY, But was stopp’d in his passage about THE MIDWAY. Toll de roll, &c.

Avast! Adam cry’d, I’m dismasted, I doubt, If I don’t tack the HEAD of my VESSEL about; Take courage, cry’d Nature, and leave it to me, For ’tis only THE LINE that divides THE RED SEA. Toll de roll, &c.

Tho’ shook by the STROKE, Adam’s MAST stood upright, His BALLAST was steady, his TACKLING quite tight; Then a breeze springing up, down the RED STRAITS he ran, And, o’erjoy’d with his voyage, he fir’d off a GREAT GUN. Toll de roll, &c.

High from the MAST HEAD, by the help of ONE EYE, The HEART of the BAY did old Adam espy; And, alarm’d at a noise—to him Nature did say, That it was the TRADE WIND, which blows always ONE WAY. Toll de roll, &c.

So transported was Adam in BOTANY BAY, He dame Nature implor’d to SPEND there night and day, And curious he try’d the BAY’S bottom to sound, But his LINE was too short by a YARD from the ground. Toll de roll, &c.

The time being out, Nature’s sentence had pass’d, Adam humbly a favour of her bounty ask’d, That when stock’d with provisions, and ev’ry thing sound, To BOTANY BAY he again might be bound. Toll de roll, &c.

Nature granted the boon both to him and his race, And said, oft I’ll transport you to that charming place; But never, cry’d she, as you honour my word, Set sail with a Clap, Pox, or Famine on board. Toll de roll, &c.

Then this BOTANY BAY, or whate’er be the name, I have prov’d is the spot from whence all of us came; May we there be transported, like Adam our sire, And never _return ’fore the time shall expire_. Toll de roll, &c.

THE NEWLY-DUBB’D JEW.

Tune, _Derry Down_.

My muse, t’other day, having laughter in view, Selected George Gordon, the now no more Jew, Resolving to state, with Mosaic precision, What befel poor Crop’s P⸺ on the late circumcision.

The Rabbi appear’d, and the Christian’s foreskin Was about to be banish’d, to cleanse Crop of sin; But Gentiles and Jews, mark the cream of the joke, By Prometheus inspir’d, his P⸺ suddenly spoke.

Tho’ with fear first poor P⸺o had prudently shrunk, And, like snail in its shell, snugly hid lay his trunk; To the Priest then he cry’d, put your knife in its case, Or, you terrible Cut P⸺k, I’ll piss in your face.

My Lord stood amaz’d, and the Rabbi was mum, To hear a thing talk that had ever been dumb; Tho’ Crop said his P⸺ ne’er obey’d his command, But always _lay down_ when he wish’d him to _stand_.

This damnable riot in Crop’s private part, Baffl’d the Priest and resisted his art, So he swore, if P⸺ did not cease making a route, He’d pull out his c—d—m, and muffle his snout.

Not a crab-louse car’d P⸺ for the Priest and his laws; He stood up for his _prepuce_, and spoke to the cause; His language was nervous, his reasoning clear, And he spoke full as well as the _Members_ elsewhere.

Your life, cry’d he, Crop’s a mere mock of devotion; Well spoken, said Cods, who was backing each motion; Such conduct, he said, combin’d madness and sin; And Cods swore his friend P⸺ should sleep in a whole skin.

Now in Akerman’s synagogue Crop’s got a place, A beard like a Jew doth his pious front grace; In time ’tis to grow so enormously big, As to make TOMMY ERSKINE a full-bottom’d wig.

Mr. P⸺, said Crop, to turn Turk I intend, And ’mongst smack and smooth eunuchs my days will I end; Poor P⸺ took the hint, and did woefully weep, Till his _flesh cap_ flipp’d o’er him, then he fell asleep.

_The FLATS and the SHARPS of the NATION._

Of Handel’s fam’d Commemoration, And what was let loose there, I sing, When the Flats and the Sharps of our nation Assembled along with their King. Madam Mara (now mark what will follow) Her ravishing sounds was imparting; Momus play’d off a trick on Apollo, And set the sweet lady a f—t—g.

At Sowgelders’ Hall, rural scene, The seat of a Knight and his swine, The musical Madam had been Invited by Mawbey to dine: So the cause of this windy commotion Was owing, if we’re not mistaken, To her bolting too great a proportion Of pease-pudding and gammon of bacon.

Sir John Hawky, the musical Knight, Who in wit all the Quorum surpasses, And to whom, if we judge of him right, The wise men of Greece were mere asses, Has defin’d Antient Music to be What sprung from the bottom of Madam, And that under the wisdom-fraught tree Eve f—t—d in concert with Adam.

Now those sages renown’d in our nation, The fam’d F.R.S.es, do tell us, That to blow up the coals of creation, The bum is a species of bellows. But Priestley, who loves to oppose, Doth a different system insist on, And swears that he’s led by the nose To pronounce it a Cask of Phlogiston.

The moment the Lady let fly, Billington, Storacci, and Kelly, With laughter were ready to die At the pickle of poor Rubinelli; For Rubi, the father of screeches, In laughing at Mara, so strain’d it, That his PIPE let the piss in his breeches, For no CISTERN has he to retain it.

Hurlowe Thrumbo, your wonder ’twill raise, Is of catgut so charming a scraper, That, old Orpheus-like, when he plays, The trees and the brutes round him caper. He blasted the Thing I won’t name, Hop’d she’d burst on the rock of damnation; But he stopp’d when the Bishop cry’d “Shame, “Brother, think of the late proclamation.”

That famous reformist, Jack Wilkes, Martin Luther the Second now deem’d, Sat in converse with Lawn Sleeves and Silks, And declar’d Sacred Music blasphem’d; But Jack turning round to Jem Twitch, Swore ’twas like the affair on the Terrace, When Bethsheba, impudent bitch, Shew’d bollocking David her bare arse.

Now Sir Watkin ap Williams ap Wynne, Who came from whence came John ap Morgan, Roar’d out to the band-leading Bates, To drown the FOUL NOISE with _bur_ organ: So Bates, by a blast of the bellows, Made peace and sweet sounds rule the roast; Then drink about, laughing fellows— For f⸺g and fiddling’s my toast.

RUNNYMEDE PILLAR.

Air, _I can’t for my Life guess the Cause of this Fuss_.

To celebrate deeds of renown, ’tis agreed That a pillar on fam’d Runnymede be erected: MEN of PARTS of all parties then here may proceed, To relate how this wonderful work is effected. The pillar’s to stand in Middlesex land, BUSHY PARK’S CENTRE’S the sweet pleasure ground; A strong-fenc’d retreat, well water’d and sweet, Where Adam first FELL, Runnymede’s to be found.

CHORUS.

Rare Runnymede such pleasures producing, No language of mortals is equal to tell; Tho’ Moses declines it, my Muse thus defines it: The paradise where our progenitors FELL.

When the midwife, our welcome deliverer, came, Runnymede witness’d a great revolution; From bondage she brought us, and Nature, dear dame, To Britain’s brave sons gave their good Constitution: For blessings like these, let gratitude seize The CRITICAL MINUTE its ardour to shew; The STONES first prepare the PILLAR to rear, Then DISCHARGE in this MEDE the just debt that we owe. Rare Runnymede, &c.

When Eve, with a mixture of fear and surprise, Beheld the HUGE PILLAR of Adam erected, Her bare bosom heav’d, and gave vent to soft sighs, While with curious eye she the structure inspected. O’erjoy’d did she trace the MOSS round its base, But its altitude did her chaste senses appal; Eve fainted away, and Moses doth say, That her apron of fig-leaves flew up in the fall. Rare Runnymede, &c.