Classic Poem

A BALLAD.

The Women all tell me I'm false to my Lass.

No longer let whimsical songsters compare
The merits of Wine with the charms of the Fair;
I appeal to the men to determine between
A tun-bellied Bacchus, and beauty's fair queen.

The pleasures of drinking henceforth I resign,
For tho' there is mirth, yet there's madness in wine;
Then let not false sparkles our senses beguile,
'Tis the mention of Chloe that makes the glass smile.

Her beauties with rapture my fancy inspire,
And the more I behold her, the more I admire;
But the charms of her temper and mind I adore;
These virtues shall bless me when beauty's no more.

How happy our days when with love we engage,
'Tis the transport of youth, 'tis the comfort of age;
But what are the joys of the bottle or bowl?
Wine tickles the taste, Love enraptures the soul.

Let the men of all nations, but Italy, prove
The blessings that wait upon Beauty and Love:
But in boosing, alas! one unfortunate bout
Will rob us of vigour, and leave us the gout.

A sot, as he riots in liquor, will cry,
‘The longer I drink, the more thirsty am I.’
From this fair consession, 'tis plain, my good friend,
You're a toper eternal, and drink to no end.

Your big-bellied bottle may ravish your eye,
But how foolish you'll look when your bottle is dry!
Sweet pleasure from Woman still flows like a spring,
Nay the Stoics must own it—She is the best thing.

Yet some praises to Wine we may justly afford,
For a time it will make one as great as a lord;
But Woman for ever gives transport to man,
And I'll stand by the ladies as long as I can.