by Dick Distich.
Originally published in Bentley's Miscellany (Richard Bentley) vol.3 #15 (Mar 1838).
No.I.—SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
Fill, fill up a bumper! no twilight, no, no!
Let hearts, now or never, and goblets o'erflow!
Apollo commands that we drink, and the Nine,
A generous spirit in generous wine.
The rose smells as sweet call it what name you will;
The right honest heart is an honest heart still;
Can we find a truer to garnish our bowls
Than Sheridan, Sherry, or prime Paddy Knowles?
The bard, in a bumper! behold, to the brim
They rise, the gay spirits of poesy—whim!
Around ev'ry glass they a garland entwine,
Of sprigs from the laurel, and leaves from the vine.
A bumper! the bard who, in eloquence bold,
Of two noble fathers the story has told;
What pangs heave the bosom, what tears dim the eyes,
When the dagger is sped, and the arrow it flies.
The bard, in a bumper! Is fancy his theme?
'Tis sportive and light as a fairy-land dream;
Does love tune his harp? 'tis devoted and pure;
Or friendship? 'tis that which shall always endure.
Ye tramplers on liberty, tremble at him;
His song is your knell, and the slave's morning hymn!
His frolicksome humour is buxom and bland,
And bright as the goblet I hold in my hand.
The bard! brim your glasses; a bumper! a cheer!
Long may he live in good fellowship here.
Shame to thee, Britain, if ever he roam,
To seek with the stranger a friend and a home!
Fate in his cup ev'ry blessing infuse,
Cherish his fortune, and smile on his muse;
Warm be his hearth, and prosperity cheer
Those he is dear to, and those he holds dear.
Blythe be his autumn as summer hath been,—
Frosty, but kindly, and sweetly serene:
Green be his winter, with snow on his brow;
Green as the wreath that encircles it now!
To dear Paddy Knowles, then, a bumper we fill,
And toast his good health as he trots down the hill;
In genius he's left all behind him, by goles!
But he won't leave behind him another Pat Knowles!
No.II.—HOURS THERE ARE TO MEM'RY DEARER.
Hours there are to mem'ry dearer
Than the miser's hoarded pelf;
More facetious, quainter, queerer,
Than Grimaldi—Joe himself!
At the Goose and Thimble, Greenwich,
Charming Lydia! fancy dwells;
When we din’d on lamb and spinage,
List'ning to those evening bells!
Then I thought our vessel anchor'd
In love's harbour safe and sound;
Thou, the teacup; I, the tankard;
Softly sighing, passing round!
Nothing now can cross or wrong go,
Bless'd with such a fav'ring gale;
Thou art pledg'd in cups of congo,
I in draughts of Burton ale!
Fleeting visions! dreams delusive!
When I thought my Lydia won;
"Of your courting what’s the use, if
I (she whisper'd) wed but one?
Tibbs Timotheus, top of Vere-Street,
He, bold youth, has bowl'd you out."
All my hopes are now in Queer-Street,
All my spirits up the spout.
No.III.—THAT ROMAN NOSE.
That Roman nose! that Roman nose!
Has robb’d my bosom of repose;
For when in sleep my eyelids close,
It haunts me still, that Roman nose!
Between two eyes as black as sloes
The bright and flaming ruby glows;
That Roman nose! that Roman nose!
And beats the blush of damask rose.
I walk the streets, the alleys, rows;
I look at all the Jems and Joes;
And old and young, and friends and foes,
But cannot find a Roman nose!
Then blessed be the day I chose
That nasal beauty of my beau's;
And when at last to heaven I goes,
I hope to spy his Roman nose!
No.IV.—TELL ME, GENTLE LAURA, WHY.
Tell me, gentle Laura, why,
When a drop is in my eye,
I could laugh, and I could cry,
I don’t know how, I can’t tell why?
When my blood flows hotter, quicker,
Is it love? or is it liquor?
To decide the point I'm loth:
One or t'other 'tis, or both!
When my peepers wink like winkin',
After laying lots of drink in,
Lovely Laura, nymph divine!
Is it Meux's mug, or thine?
When my muzzy brains begin
Like a humming-top to spin,
And I carry too much sail,
Are you humming, or the ale?
Now I know what makes me queer,
You are spruce, and so's the beer;
You are fair; the stout is brown;
That is up, and I am down!