University of Virginia Library

The OLD MAN.

Yes—I am Old, I must confess,
Yet I ne're drink one Drop the less;
A larger Glass—I fain wou'd see
The hardy Youth dares answer me;
The Puny Stripling soon shall know,
As I the Boy in Years outgo,
I shall in Manly Drinking too.
The Circling Hours I measure out
By Bowls of Wine dispatch'd about,
And as the nimble Atoms pass,
I take for ev'ry Sand a Glass.
Wheree're my Chearful Friends are found,
The Goblet, like the Sun, walks round;
The Sun, whose rip'ning Beams but shine
To give us fresh Supplies of Wine.
Let's frolick then, and be profuse,
And to our Genius give a Loose:
Bacchus had never reach'd the Sky
By Dulness, and Sobriety,
He Nobler Ways to Glory trod,
And drank himself into a God.
Yes—I am Old, and on that Score
'Tis fit that I carouse the more;
Six in a Hand—the Cold's so great
My Blood is scarcely heated yet;
The kindly Warmth by Drinking bred
Will melt the Snow upon my Head,
'Twill thaw the Ice that chills each Vein,
And make the Old Man young again.
For either Hand, my Friends, produce
A Bottle charg'd with sprightly Juice;
I will not ask a better Prop
To keep my stagg'ring Figure up.
When my last Fatal Minute's come,
Thus wou'd I reel into my Tomb,
There quite dead drunk resign my Breath,
And so prevent the Stroke of Death.