He that of honour, wit, and mirth partakes,
May be a fit companion o'er Beef-steaks:
His name may be to future times enrolled
In Estcourt's book, whose gridiron's framed with gold
Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine a noble meal bespoke us,
And for the guests that were to dine brought Comus, Love, and Jocus
Most noble creature of the horned race, who labours at the plough to earn thy grass,
And yielding to the yoke, shows man the way to bear his servile chains, and to obey
More haughty tyrants, who usurp the sway thy sturdy sinews till the farmer's grounds,
To thee the grazier owes his hoarded pounds: tis by thy labour, we abound in malt,
Whose powerful juice the meaner slaves exalt; and when grown fat, and fit to be devoured,
The poleaxe frees thee from the teasing goard:thus cruel man, to recompense thy pains,
First works thee hard, and then beats out thy brains such strenuous lines, so cheering, soft, and sweet,
That daily flow from your conjunctive wit,proclaim the power of Beef, that noble meat.
Your tuneful songs such deep impression make, and of such awful, beauteous strength partake,
Each stanza seems an ox, each line a steak. as if the rump in slices, broil'd or stewed
In its own gravy, till divinely good, turned all to powerful wit, as soon as chew'd
To grind thy gravy out their jaws employ, o'er heaps of reeking steaks express their joy,
And sing of Beef as Homer did of Troy
When Lun appeared, with matchless art and whim,
He gave the power of speech to every limb.
Though masked and mute conveyed his true intent,
And told in frolic gestures what he meant;
But now the motley coat and sword of wood,
Require a tongue to make them understood
Mordanto fills the trump of fame;
The Christian world his death proclaim;
And prints are crowded with his name.
In journeys he outrides the post;
Sits up till midnight with his host;
Talks politics, and gives the toast,
A skeleton in outward figure;
His meagre corpse, though full of vigour,
Would halt behind him, were it bigger,
So wonderful his expedition;
When you have not the least suspicion,
He's with you, like an apparition:
Shines in all climates like a star;
In senates bold, and fierce in war;
From his youth upwards to the present day,
When vices more than years have made him grey;
When riotous excess with wasteful hand
Shakes life's frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand;
Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth,
Untainted with one deed of real worth—
Lothario, holding honour at no price,
Folly to folly, added vice to vice,
Wrought sin with greediness, and courted shame
With greater zeal than good men seek for fame
A land-commandant, and a tar.
He that parts us shall bring a brand from Heav'n,
And fire us hence ever yours, old and new friend
This is no flattery; these are the counsellors that feelingly persuade me what I am
Native to famous wits or hospitable
If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly
In town let me live then, in town let me die;
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall.
Come, thou soul-reviving cup;
Try thy healing art;
Stir the fancy's visions up,
And warm my wasted heart.
Touch with freshening tints of bliss
Memory's fading dream.
Give me, while thy lip I kiss,
The heaven that's in thy stream.
As the witching fires of wine
Pierce through Time's past reign,
Gleams of joy that once were mine,
Glimpse back on life again.
And if boding terrors rise
O'er my melting mind,
Hope still starts to clear my eyes,
And drinks the tear behind.
Then life's wintry shades new drest,
Fair as summer seem;
Flowers I gather from my breast,
And sunshine from the stream.
As the cheering goblets pass,
Memory culls her store;
Scatters sweets around my glass,
And prompts my thirst for more.
Far from toils the great and grave
To proud ambition give,
My little world kind Nature gave,
And simply bade me live.
On me she fix'd an humble art,
To deck the Muse's groves,
And on the nerve that twines my heart
The touch of deathless love.
Then, rosy god, this night let me
Thy cheering magic share;
Again let hope-fed Fancy see
Life's picture bright and fair.
Oh! steal from care my heart away,
To sip thy healing spring;
And let me taste that bliss to-day
To-morrow may not bring."
Adieu to the world! where I gratefully own,
Few men more delight or more comfort have known:
To an age far beyond mortal lot have I trod
The path of pure health, that best blessing of God;
And so mildly devout Nature temper'd my frame,
Holy patience still sooth'd when Adversity came;
Thus with mind ever cheerful, and tongue never tired,
I sung the gay strains these sweet blessings inspired;
And by blending light mirth with a moral-mix'd stave,
Won the smile of the gay and the nod of the grave.
But at length the dull languor of mortal decay
Throws a weight on its spirit too light for its clay;
And the fancy, subdued, as the body's opprest,
Resigns the faint flights that scarce wake in the breast.
A painful memento that man's not to play
A game of light folly through Life's sober day;
A just admonition, though view'd with regret,
Still blessedly offer'd, though thanklessly met.
Too long, I perhaps, like the many who stray,
Have upheld the gay themes of the Bacchanal's day;
But at length Time has brought, what it ever will bring,
A shade that excites more to sigh than to sing.
In this close of Life's chapter, ye high-favoured few,
Take my Muse's last tribute—this painful adieu!
Take my wish, that your bright social circle on earth
For ever may flourish in concord and mirth;
For the long years of joy I have shared at your board,
Take the thanks of my heart—where they long have been stored;
And remember, when Time tolls my last passing knell,
The 'old bard' dropped a tear, and then bade ye—Farewell
Well, I'm come, my dear friends, your kind wish to obey,
And drive, by light mirth, all Life's shadows away;
And turn the heart's sighs to the throbbings of joy,
And a grave aged man to a merry old boy.
'Tis a bold transformation, a daring design,
And not past the power of Friendship and Wine;
And I trust that e'en yet this warm mixture will raise
A brisk spark of light o'er the shade of my days
When my spirits are low, for relief and delight,
I still place your splendid Memorial in sight;
And call to my Muse, when care strives to pursue,
'Bring the Steaks to my Memory and the Bowl to my view.'
When brought, at its sight all the blue devils fly,
And a world of gay visions rise bright to my eye;
Cold Fear shuns the cup where warm Memory flows;
And Grief, shamed by Joy, hides his budget of Woes.
'Tis a pure holy fount, where forever I find
A sure double charm for the Body and Mind;
For I feel while I'm cheer'd by the drop that I lift,
I'm Blest by the Motive that hallows the Gift
Then roll along, my lyric song it seasons well the table,
And tells a truth to Age and Youth that Life's a fleeting fable.
Thus Mirth and Woe the brighter show from rosy wine's reflection;
From first to last, this truth hath past was made for Care's correction.
Now what those think who water drink of these old rules of Horace,
I sha'n't now show; but this I know His rules do well for Morris.
Old Horace, when he dipped his pen, Twas wine he had resort to;
He chose for use Falernian juice as I choose old Oporto;
At every bout an ode came out yet Bacchus kept him twinkling;
As well aware more fire was there which wanted but the sprinkling
When Life charms my heart, must I kindly be told, I'm too gay and too happy for one that's so old
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