The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth

Thy ruby lips must kiss the brim
Before I drain the cup,
Its lustre else will be too dim
To light my spirits up.
Nay, taste, my love—its purple hue
Will brighter paint thy lip;
Thine eye will gain new lustre too,
Thy soul new ardor—sip!

If rosy wine have power to cheer
The regents of the sky,
It sure will chase away the tear
That dims an angel's eye.

Then taste, my love—its purple hue
Will brighter dye thy lip;
Thine eye will gain new lustre too,
Thy soul new ardor—sip!

This idea smacks of Paganism; but I dare not avail myself of higher authority in a convivial song, or I would refer to him who said, that “wine cheereth God and man.”

TARGET-SHOOTING.

Now ruthless Mars, while his war-dogs are dozing,
May curry his coursers and burnish his car,
While in the sunshine of peace we 're reposing,
Gayly we practice the duties of war.
Bright are our arms as the eyes of the lasses,
True to their object as Love's feathered dart,
Swift through the target the charmed bullet passes,
Swift as the arrows of love through the heart.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.

Life is a game full of hazard and chances,
Each tries his luck for a hit or a miss,
Trusting to fortune, each youth thus advances
Oft gets a kick where he shoots for a kiss.

Whether he wins by a bribe, like Polyctor,
Or fortune, or fate has directed the shaft,
Pleasure still mingles a bowl for the victor,
Eager he drains its contents at a draught.
Seize, then, the present hour,
While joy is in our power,
Mirth unrestrained like our red wine shall flow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.

Fame is the prize which ambition contends for,
Rank is the mark to which Folly aspires,
Gold is the object which Avarice bends for,
Peace and content are what Virtue acquires.
Glory's the prize which we soldiers would try for,
Fired with the plaudits which beauty will give,
Freedom and country we 'd willingly die for,
Wine, wit, and women—for them we would live.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend the festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.

THE KROUT FEAST.—NO. 1.

Krouts, who have so often fed
Here, on cabbage white and red,
Welcome now—the board is spread
For our revelry!
Now 's the day, and now 's the hour,
See! our royal chief devour,
Sausage, goose, and cabbage sour,
Scorning rivalry!

Who would be to care a slave?
Who, at such a feast, be grave?
Who refuse to chant a stave?
Let him quickly flee!
Who for cabbage, king, and law,
Knife and fork will freely draw,
'Till there 's naught but bones to gnaw,
Let him do like me!

By an empty stomach's pain,
By blue devils in the brain,
We will eat, and quaff champagne,
'Till the demons flee!

Lay the krout and smoked-goose low,
Let the wine in torrents flow
'Till the cheeks with rapture glow,
'T is our king's decree!

Load your plates above the rim,
Fill your glasses to the brim,
Think what honors wait on him,
Who the prize receives!
'T is a race of bright renown,
'T is to win a princely crown,
'T is to wear a royal gown,
Made of cabbage leaves!

Krouts, then play your manly parts,
With the puddings, pies, and tarts;
Cabbage-heads have generous hearts,
Let them bound with glee
'T is a custom we revere,
'T is a feast to Dutchmen dear,
Knickerbockers every year
Keep the jubilee!

THE KROUT FEAST.—NO. 2.

Again, brother krouts, are we gayly united,
In stuffing and swigging to honor our chief,
Each feeling his services richly requited,
In laughing and quaffing, a stranger to grief.
Then hail to the banquet of reason and pleasure!
The envy of heroes and monarchs no doubt,
For this is a bliss they would prize above measure,
To feast upon cabbage converted to krout;
The round-headed cabbage, the soft pulpy cabbage,
The sweet, wholesome cabbage, converted to krout.

Oh, think of the prize that is now set before us,
A throne and a sceptre, a crown, and a robe;
Then eat 'till you burst—in a contest so glorious,
No true-hearted krout but would swallow the globe.
The wine sparkles brightly, then quaff as you mingle it,
Replenish your plates, too, as soon as they are out,

With smoke-seasoned goose, and the savory ringlet,
With soft, pulpy cabbage converted to krout;
The round-headed cabbage, the soft pulpy cabbage,
The sweet, wholesome cabbage, converted to krout.

Long life to our monarch, whose station exempts him,
From each vulgar drudgery, even to think,
Except to devour sour-krout when it temps him,
Or when the wine sparkles before him, to drink.
Such a king can, of course, do no wrong to the nation,
His ministers answer when radicals flout;
Then brave Knickerbockers, lets strive for the station,
By feasting on cabbage converted to krout;
The round-headed cabbage, the soft pulpy cabbage,
The sweet, wholesome cabbage, converted to krout.

WHEN EYES ARE BRIGHT.

When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

While pallid care forgets to call,
And smiling beauty lights the hall,
Devote to bliss the present hour,
Perhaps the next may darkly lower.
When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

This life were but a dreary scene,
Without such little spots of green;
But every joy like this to taste,
Imparts new strength to tread the waste.
When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

Such pleasures leave no sting behind,
But sweetly elevate the mind,
'Till every heart, with generous glow,
Is blest to see its neighbor so.
When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

AMITY, HOPE, AND PLEASURE.

AN ADAPTATIOM TO AN ITALIAN AIR.

Night's ebony car descending,
Rolls rapidly down the sky,
While numerous sylphs attending,
Show revel y's hour is nigh.
Now amity, hope, and pleasure,
Smile placidly, kiss, and toy,
While trippingly dance in measure,
Love, liberty, peace, and joy.

Late dismally pining daily,
Hearts languidly sunk in wo,
Now merrily bounding gayly,
All playfully throb and glow
Now amity, hope, and pleasure,
Smile placidly, kiss, and toy,
While trippingly dance in measure,
Love, liberty, peace, and joy.

YE CARELESS, SMILING SONS OF MIRTH.

Ye careless smiling sons of mirth,
Of warm and generous soul,
Who share, with hearts of kindred worth,
The pleasures of the bowl;
When round the festive board convened,
Where wit and mirth combine,
Jests abound,
Songs go round,
Hearts are warm, care is drowned,
If on earth bliss be found,
'T is in friendship, love, and wine.

Then fill the mantling goblet high,
'Till brilliants deck its brim,
And drink to her whose sparkling eye,
Would make their lustre dim.
The toast shall pass, the glee go round,
Such smiling fair is mine,
May she miss
No true bliss,
Dance and song, love's warm kiss,
Days and nights, bright as this,
Blest with friendship, love, and wine.

LET POLITICIANS RAIL AND FIGHT.

Let politicians rail and fight,
For president or king,
We care not which is wrong or right,
But gayly drink and sing.
The only party we would join,
Is that of woman, wit, and wine.
Then we'll push about the bowl, my boys,
Then we'll push about the bowl,
To exhilarate the soul,
And heighten our convivial joys.

FILL A BUMPER, LET IT PASS.

Fill a bumper, let it pass,
This shall be our parting glass;
When again we thus convene,
Equal joy shall crown the scene,
Wine and music, mirth and wit,
Every eye with pleasure lit;
Parting is not painful, when
We but part to meet again.

University of Virginia Library

CONVIVIAL SONGS AND GLEES.

THY RUBY LIPS MUST KISS THE BRIM.