 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
170
TOSS-POT
Eclogue the 5th
Argument
Love-Rum & Ever-Drunk, two planters, meeting together, to take a Morning's Draught, resolve to divert one another with a Song; But think none so proper, as what relates to their old Companion, Toss-pot, whose Worth, the Loss they receive by his Death, & his Admission into the happy Shades of honest Topers they merrily sing.
Love-Rum:
Since, Everdrunk, we're here so nicely met
Beneath these Trees let's take a Morning's Wet;
And as we're both old Dabsters at a Song,
A merry Catch won't make it seem too long.
Ever-Drunk:
Agreed—We two such bon Companions are,
If you once bid me sing, I can't forbear:
Say, shall we sit beneath these shady Boughs,
Or wou'd you rather walk into the House?
Love-Rum:
I think in all our Country there's but one,
Can sing with you, & that is Boozy John.
Ever-Drunk:
Why; e'en at church he makes so great a roar,
The Clerk declares he'll sing the Psalm no more.
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Begin then First; No Love-song have you got
'Bout Nancy's Charms? the brave & valiant Scot,
Or bouncing Nell most woundily wou'd please—
—Cato, I see, is cropping round the Trees.—
Ever-Drunk:
I'll give you then a Song I lately made;
From Boozy John, a Better you ne'er had.
Love-Rum:
Pho! Man; he sing with you; I'd think as soon,
Twas lighter far at Midnight than at Noon;
Or that a Weevil's larger than a Mouse.
Ever-Drunk:
Enough, old Lad—Come, walk into the House—
—When Tosspot died, Lord! What a do we made;
The planters round lamented, he was dead:
While 'bout his Clay-cold cor[p]se poor Susy hung,
And sigh'd so deep, she cou'd not use her Tongue.
None now our Guts with Ham & Chicken fill;
Nor can we in our much-lov'd Bumbo swill;
Toss-pot, there's not an honest Lad alive,
But t' have thee here again, his Soul wou'd give.
Toss-pot wou'd make the wisest Man a Fool,
And give new Life, if we were e'er so dull;
Wou'd make us drink, till we cou'd drink no more,
But cover'd with our Carcases the Floor.
As of all Liquors Rum delights the best,
And 'midst all Food, good Ham excels the rest;
So 'mongst us Planters there was none became,
So well the Business, or deserv'd the name.
His Death of all our fud[d]ling Bouts bereft us,
Sober, we've gone to Bed, since he has left us.
Where wont the Silver Tankard to be brought,
With Nutmeg'd Cyder for a Morning's Draught,
Now can we scarce regale on thin small Beer,
And Ten to One! that's dead—& never clear.
For the full Bowl, Obedient to our Call,
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Come, Brother Planters, dance we round his Grave;
Such Honours fit it is our Friend shou'd have;
Each bring his Song & Bowl & toss 'em off;
Our Value, our great Regard, we can't shew enough,
His Influence still shall warm us, when we meet,
And, tipsy, we shall think, we have him yet.
Love-Rum:
As, when confounded drunk, a Nap to take
Makes me quite gay and spritely when I wake;
As in the Morning—Drunkards then are dry—
Small-Beer does e'en a grateful Draught supply:
So does thy well-made Song delight me now;
Nor e'er a better have I heard, I vow.
But I must have my Song, as well as you,
And I've a good One—'Tis on Tosspot too—
The honest Fellow lov'd me, as his Life—
—I'm sure, much better than he did his Wife.
Ever-Drunk:
You can't oblige me more—Friend Rumps declar'd,
A feater Song than yours he never heard;
And well poor Toss-pot merited our Lay's,
Since 'Twas his continual care his Friends to please.
Love-Rum:
When Toss-pot's Spirit left his breathless Clay,
And to more solid Pleasures wing'd away;
Where he, with happy Topers, gone before,
Might swallow Nectar, & more nobly roar;
With joy ourselves & Mates all gather'd round
And all our sorrows in our Bumpers drown'd:
Our Negroes all their Hardships quite forgot,
Our Overseers the Seasons heeded not;
Toss-pot lov'd Ease & Indolence—So we
To go the Road he led us, all agree.
With Toss-pot's Name the neighbouring Woods resound,
And distant Mountains eccho back the Sound:
A Saint we've made him & his constant Task's
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For which we'll yearly Honours to him pay,
For his sake drink our very souls away.
As oft as boozy thy old Friend shall be,
My Catches, Toss-pot, shall be all of Thee;
With soaking Tom, & toping Hodge I'll join,
And make thy mem'ry & thy Fame divine.
Yes while in Woods fell Wolves shall chuse to rove,
While Humming-Birds & Bees sweet Blossoms love,
Thy name, thy Praise, thy Honour shall remain,—
Gad! if they don't I'll ne'er get drunk again.
Ever-Drunk:
What does thy Song deserve? A North-West Wind
In Summer's Heat can't better Welcome find;
Not yon green Waves, that grumble 'gainst the Shore,
Nor that smooth murm'ring Stream, delight me more.
Love-Rum:
This, 'Baccostopper first do thou receive;
The same I thought t' our Parson once to give;
But faith! I think it better here bestow'd,
And I'll assure it made of stoutest Wood.
Ever-Drunk:
And here's a Gourd the neatest of the Sort,
Old jerom Crump bad me a Shilling for't,
Tho', being an Assembly-man his wound is great,
I'd rather you the Triffle wou'd accept.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |