Verses by John Frederick Bryant late tobacco-pipe maker at Bristol. Together with his life, written by himself |
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| A SONG, Written for a Club of Convivials,
Held weekly at the House of Mr. Bush, the Sign of
The Sun, in Christmas-Street, Bristol. |
 | Verses by John Frederick Bryant |  |
A SONG, Written for a Club of Convivials, Held weekly at the House of Mr. Bush, the Sign of The Sun, in Christmas-Street, Bristol.
Ye souls, who love to quaff the genial stream,Whose wave inspires with mirth and joy supreme,
The gift of Ceres, whose maternal hand
Spreads the ripe harvest, waving o'er our land;
And you who wish to lull your cares with song,
Let bus'ness rest, and join the jovial throng,
Who, while my muse ascends in lofty rhyme,
Spurn earth's dull scenes, and soar with her sublime;
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Nor rests till high upon the happy shores,
Near St. John's sacred mansion , pleas'd, she finds,
Above the Worlds , a mansion to our minds;
Where fountains with nectareous liquids flow,
And plants of mirth to fruits of friendship grow;
Where Sol perpetual sheds his golden rays,
And Johnny Bush the rent and licence pays;
Who has provided us this ample room,
To which at length, I thank my stars, I'm come.
Two public-houses a little lower down the same street, each the sign of the Globe, distinguished by the names of the Old and the New Globes.
Tune, Strephon and his Chlora lying.
And our president, right worthy,For my song has knock'd me down:
Come, my muse! for once bestir thee;
Heav'n avert the critic's frown!
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If, probatum est, they smile,
Shall dispel what doubts confound me,
Prompt my verse, and grace my style.
Though shou'd you look one size graver,
Ah! my song would soon be done;
Or, distrustful of your favour,
Timid I should venture on.
Tune, The Lass of Patie's Mill.
Now some folks like your hunting songs,
Some sing about the wars;
For some men of the chace are fond,
And a few of the field of Mars.
While some affect your toping songs,
(The votaries of wine)
The lover swears your love-sick songs
Are the only songs divine.
Some sing about the wars;
For some men of the chace are fond,
And a few of the field of Mars.
While some affect your toping songs,
(The votaries of wine)
The lover swears your love-sick songs
Are the only songs divine.
The sailor likes your sea-songs best,
In which he'll take some pride;
And wonder if he lets you rest
'Till he's sung you a full broadside.
The miller sings his mill-clack song;
Your party songs for some;
The husbandman holds fast his cann,
Loud roaring Harvest-home.
In which he'll take some pride;
And wonder if he lets you rest
'Till he's sung you a full broadside.
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Your party songs for some;
The husbandman holds fast his cann,
Loud roaring Harvest-home.
Tune, Then farewel, my trim-built Wherry.
(A little altered.)
But our convivial joys my theme is,
Though surly cares at distance growl:
To drink and smoke, to laugh and sing, our scheme is,
While friendship fires each gen'rous soul,
While friendship fires each gen'rous soul.
Though surly cares at distance growl:
To drink and smoke, to laugh and sing, our scheme is,
While friendship fires each gen'rous soul,
While friendship fires each gen'rous soul.
Our lips the circling tankard greeting,
Our pipes with fragrance charge the air:
Success we drink, and ev'ry draught repeating,
Or damn the churl, or toast the fair.
Our pipes with fragrance charge the air:
Success we drink, and ev'ry draught repeating,
Or damn the churl, or toast the fair.
While thus the social joys are flowing,
In ev'ry eye while pleasures beam,
While with celestial flame each breast is glowing,
The sky-born sons of Jove we seem!
In ev'ry eye while pleasures beam,
While with celestial flame each breast is glowing,
The sky-born sons of Jove we seem!
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Meanwhile the song, in strains harmonious,
With Fancy's flights enchants our ears:
Now hear the thund'ring chorus roar symphonious,
And stun the world, and drown the spheres,
And stun the world, and drown the spheres.
With Fancy's flights enchants our ears:
Now hear the thund'ring chorus roar symphonious,
And stun the world, and drown the spheres,
And stun the world, and drown the spheres.
| Verses by John Frederick Bryant | |