My muse, too, when her wings are dry,
No frolic flight will take,

But round the bowl she'll dip and fly
Like swallows round a lake;

Then if the nymphs will have their share
Before they'll bless their swain,
Why that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

In life I've rung all changes through,
Run every pleasure down
'Mid each extreme of folly, too,
And lived with half the town;
For me there's nothing new or rare
Till wine deceives my brain,
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

There's many a lad I knew is dead,
And many a lass grown old,
And as the lesson strikes my head
My weary heart grows cold;
But wine awhile drives off despair,
Nay, bids a hope remain,
Why, that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

I find too when I stint my glass
And sit with sober air,

I'm posed by some dull reasoning ass
Who treads the path of care;
Or, harder still, am doomed to bear

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain,
And that I'm sure's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Though hipped and vexed at England's fate

In these convulsive days,

I can't endure the ruined state

My sober eye surveys;

But through the bottle's dazzling glare

The gloom is seen less plain,

And that I think's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

Charles Morris [1745-1838]

"LET THE TOAST PASS"

From "The School for Scandal "

HERE'S to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
Here's to the widow of fifty;

Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.

Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir;

Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,
And to her that's as brown as a berry;
Here's to the wife, with a face full of woe,
And now to the girl that is merry.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill the pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast them together.

Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]

THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'

HERE'S to the year that's awa'!

We will drink it in strong and in sma';

And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
While swift flew the year that's awa'.

Here's to the sodger who bled,

And the sailor who bravely did fa';

Their fame is alive though their spirits are fled

On the wings of the year that's awa'.

Here's to the friends we can trust

When storms of adversity blaw;

May they live in our songs and be nearest our hearts, Nor depart like the year that's awa'.

John Dunlop (1755-1820]

JOHN BARLEYCORN

THERE were three kings into the cast,
Three kings both great and high;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,'

Put clods upon his head;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall:

John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel armed wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head
Showed he began to fail.

His color sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim:

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe:
And still, as signs of life appeared,
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crushed him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round,
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a herc bold,
Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

"Twill make a man forget his woe; "Twill heighten all his joy:

"Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"FILL THE BUMPER FAIR"

FILL the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame

Ne'er so swiftly passes

As when through the frame

It shoots from brimming glasses.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions,

And bring down its ray

From the starred dominions:

So we, Sages, sit,

And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning,

From the Heaven of Wit

Draw down all its lightning.