 | Songs, comic and satyrical |  |
31
THE WINE VAULT.
Contented I am, and contented I'll be,
For what can this world more afford,
Than a lass who will sociably sit on my knee,
And a cellar as sociably stor'd,
My brave boys.
For what can this world more afford,
Than a lass who will sociably sit on my knee,
And a cellar as sociably stor'd,
My brave boys.
My vault door is open, descend and improve,
That Cask,—aye, that we will try;
'Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love,
And as bright as her cheeks to the eye.
That Cask,—aye, that we will try;
'Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love,
And as bright as her cheeks to the eye.
In a piece of slit hoop, see my candle is stuck,
'Twill light us each bottle to hand;
The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke,
As I hate that a bumper should stand.
'Twill light us each bottle to hand;
The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke,
As I hate that a bumper should stand.
Astride on a butt, as a butt shou'd be strod,
I gallop the brusher along;
Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's God,
And a Sentiment give, or a Song.
I gallop the brusher along;
Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's God,
And a Sentiment give, or a Song.
We are dry where we sit, tho' the oozing drops seem
With pearls the moist walls to emboss;
From the arch, mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream
Like stucco-work cut out of moss.
With pearls the moist walls to emboss;
From the arch, mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream
Like stucco-work cut out of moss.
When the lamp is brimful, how the taper flame shines,
Which when moisture is wanting decays;
Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines,
Or else there's an end of my blaze.
Which when moisture is wanting decays;
Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines,
Or else there's an end of my blaze.
Sound those Pipes, they're in tune, and those Bins are well fill'd,
View that heap of Old Hock in your rear;
Yon bottles are Burgundy! mark how they're pil'd,
Like artillery, tier over tier.
View that heap of Old Hock in your rear;
Yon bottles are Burgundy! mark how they're pil'd,
Like artillery, tier over tier.
32
My cellar's my camp, and my soldiers my flasks,
All gloriously rang'd in review;
When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks
As kingdoms I've yet to subdue.
All gloriously rang'd in review;
When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks
As kingdoms I've yet to subdue.
Like Macedon's Madman, my glass I'll enjoy,
Defying, hyp, gravel, or gout;
He cry'd when he had no more worlds to destroy,
I'll weep when my liquor is out.
Defying, hyp, gravel, or gout;
He cry'd when he had no more worlds to destroy,
I'll weep when my liquor is out.
On their stumps some have fought, and as stoutly will I,
When reeling, I roll on the floor;
Then my legs must be lost, so I'll drink as I lie,
And dare the best Buck, to do more.
When reeling, I roll on the floor;
Then my legs must be lost, so I'll drink as I lie,
And dare the best Buck, to do more.
'Tis my will when I die, not a tear shall be shed,
No Hic Jacet be cut on my stone;
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red,
And say that His drinking is done,
My brave boys.
No Hic Jacet be cut on my stone;
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red,
And say that His drinking is done,
My brave boys.
| Songs, comic and satyrical | |