YE good fellows all,

Who love to be told where good claret's in store,

Attend to the call

Of one who's ne'er frighted,

But greatly delighted,
With six bottles more.

Be sure you don't pass

The good house Moneyglass,

Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns; "Twill well suit your humour,

For pray what would you more,

Than mirth, with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?
Ye lovers, who pine

For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,
Who whimper and whine
For lilies and roses,

With eyes, lips, and noses,
Or tip of an ear:

Come hither, I'll show

How Phillis and Chloe

ye

No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans;
For what mortal so stupid

As not to quit Cupid,

When called by good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?

Ye poets, who write,

And brag of your drinking fam'd Helicon's brook-
Though all you get by 't,

Is a dinner, oft-times,
In reward of your rhymes-
With Humphry the duke:

Learn Bacchus to follow,
And quit your Apollo,

Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones.

Our jingling of glasses,

Your rhyming surpasses,

When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye soldiers so stout,

With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,

Who make such a rout

Of all your commanders

Who served us in Flanders,

And eke at the Boyne:

Come leave off your rattling

Of sieging and battling,

And know you'd much better to sleep in whole bones;
Were you sent to Gibraltar,

Your notes you'd soon alter,

And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye clergy so wise

Who myst'ries profound can demonstrate most clear,
How worthy to rise!

You preach once a week,

But your tithes never seek
Above once in a year:

Come here without failing,
And leave off your railing

'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;

Then away

Says the text so divine,

66 What is life without wine ?"

with the claret-a bumper, Squire Jones.

Ye lawyers so just,

Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,

How worthy of trust!

As

You know black from white,

Yet prefer wrong to right

you chance to be fee'd:

Leave musty reports,

And forsake the king's courts,

Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones; Burn Salkeld and Ventris,

With all your damn'd entries,

And away with the claret-a bumper, Squire Jones.
Ye physical tribe,

Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace
Whene'er you prescribe,

Have at your devotion
Pills, bolus, or potion,
Be what will the case:
Pray where is the need

To purge, blister, and bleed?

When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns
That the forms of old Galen

Are not so prevailing

As mirth with good claret-and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye foxhunters eke,

That follow the call of the horn and the hound,
Who your ladies forsake

Before they're awake,

To beat up the brake

Where the vermin is found:

Leave Piper and Blueman,

Shrill Duchess and Trueman

No music is found in such dissonant tones:

Would you ravish your ears

With the songs of the spheres,

to the claret-a bumper, Squire Jones!

BARNEY BRALLAGHAN'S COURTSHIP.

'TWAS on a windy night,

At two o'clock in the morning,

An Irish lad so tight,

All wind and weather scorning,

At Judy Calaghan's door,

Sitting upon the pailings,

His love-tale he did pour,

And this was part of his wailings-
Only say

You'll have Mister Brallaghan,
Don't say nay,

Charming Judy Callaghan.

This song was thought worthy, by the illustrious "Father Prout" (no bad judge-indeed he's as good as a judge and jury in such matters), of being honoured by his polyglot pen with a Latin version. I believe he did the same honour to my "Molly Carew."

O, THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG!

SHERIDAN. From the "Duenna."

O, the days when I was young!
When I laughed in fortune's spite,
Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night:

Then it was, old father Care,
Little reck'd I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.

Truth they say lies in a well;
Why, I vow I ne'er could see,
Let the water-drinkers tell—
There it always lay for me!
For when sparkling wine went round
Never saw I falsehood's mask :
But still honest Truth I found

In the bottom of each flask.

True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay:
Few the locks that now I own,

And the few I have are gray;
Yet old Jerome, thou may'st boast
While thy spirits do not tire,
Still beneath thy age's frost

Glows a spark of youthful fire.

THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK.

SAMUEL LOVER. From "Songs and Ballads."

On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Patrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born,
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry, and shock,
And some blamed the babby—and some blamed the clock-
'Till with all their cross questions sure no one could know
If the child was too fast-or the clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Patrick's birth-day,
Some fought for the eighth-for the ninth more would die,
And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye!
At last, both the factions so positive grew

That each kept a birth-day-so Pat then had two,
'Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,
Said "No one could have two birth days but a twins."

Says he, "Boys, don't be fighting for eight or for nine,
Don't be always dividing—but sometimes combine;
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen † is the mark,
So let that be his birthday."—"Amen," says the clerk.
“If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show-
That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!"
Then they all got blind drunk-which completed their bliss,
And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

*This is a very homely way of saying what Moore has more elaborately turned into polished verse:

66 "Twas fate," they 'll say, "a wayward fate

Your web of discord wove,

And while your tyrants join'd, in hate,

You never joined in love."

+ The 17th of March is St. Patrick's Day.