 | Songs, comic and satyrical |  |
A TOAST.
When running life's race, we gallop apace,
Each strives to be first at the post;
Mount Hope with catch-weights, for Fame's give-and-take plates,
And pray what is Fame but a toast.
Each strives to be first at the post;
Mount Hope with catch-weights, for Fame's give-and-take plates,
And pray what is Fame but a toast.
The taste of our days is poaching for praise,
All men of their services boast;
The ladies by dress the same ardour express,
Each wou'd if she cou'd be a toast.
All men of their services boast;
The ladies by dress the same ardour express,
Each wou'd if she cou'd be a toast.
Both sexes agree, over wine to be free,
For Freedom's an Englishman's boast;
As freely we think, so as freely we drink,
And a sentiment give for a toast.
For Freedom's an Englishman's boast;
As freely we think, so as freely we drink,
And a sentiment give for a toast.
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What is life? prithee say, but a glass and away,
While Health is our ruddy-fac'd host;
But when we abuse him, we're certain to lose him,
By taking too much of a toast.
While Health is our ruddy-fac'd host;
But when we abuse him, we're certain to lose him,
By taking too much of a toast.
These common-place rhimes suit common-place times,
Who now can of genius boast?—
Why, really, I think 'tis a science to drink,
And there's genius in giving a toast.
Who now can of genius boast?—
Why, really, I think 'tis a science to drink,
And there's genius in giving a toast.
Even politics fail, altercation grows stale,
Of what now can either side boast?
No matter to us, all their farce and their fuss,
Deserves not the name of a toast.
Of what now can either side boast?
No matter to us, all their farce and their fuss,
Deserves not the name of a toast.
The riots and routs of the ins and the outs,
Is only a newspaper roast;
Of cricket I sing, in and out there's the thing,
And there I'll attempt a new toast.
Is only a newspaper roast;
Of cricket I sing, in and out there's the thing,
And there I'll attempt a new toast.
May our innings be long, may our bowling be strong,
Middle-wicket I chuse for my post;
Come, bumper away, 'twixt the stumps your balls play,
And win the game love—that's the toast.
Middle-wicket I chuse for my post;
Come, bumper away, 'twixt the stumps your balls play,
And win the game love—that's the toast.
| Songs, comic and satyrical | |