The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thrice hail, thou prince of jovial fellows,
Tuning so blithe thy lyric bellows,
Of no one's brighter genius jealous;
Whose little span
Is spent 'twixt poetry and alehouse,
'Twixt quill and cann!

226

Reckless howe'er the world may fadge,
Variety thy only badge:
Now courting Susan, Kate, or Madge,
Or black-ey'd Molly;
For living in one sullen lodge
Is downright folly.

Thy classics sleeping on the shelf,
Thou'rt muse and patron to thyself:
Aye frolic when profuse of pelf;
Grim as the gallows
When dunn'd by that obstreperous elf,
False-scoring Alice.

Long may'st thou punch ambrosial swill,
Drinking no water from that hill
By temperate bards recorded still
In tasteless rhime;
For noble punch shall sweetly fill
The thought sublime.

227

By many wrong'd, gay bloom of song,
Thou yet art innocent of wrong,
Virtue and truth to thee belong,
Virtue and truth;
Though Pleasure led thy step along,
And trapp'd thy youth.

With Baynham, social spring of wit,
Thou hadst full many a merry fit;
And whether haply thou shalt sit
With clown or peer,
Never shall lingering honour quit
Thy heart sincere.

Ever. So Milton:

And hear the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing.

So Falstaff: “I am not only witty myself, but the cause of wit in others.