The Claret-Drinkers Song;
OR,
THE GOOD-FELLOWS DESIGN.
Being a Pleasant New Song to the Times. Written by a Person of Quality.
Wine the most powerfullst of all things on Earth,
Which stifles Cares and Sorrows in their Birth:
No Treason in it harbors, nor can Hate
Creep in where it bears sway, to hurt the State:
Though Storms grow high, so Wine is to be got,
We are secure, their Rage we value not:
The Muses cherishd up such Nectar, sing
Eternal joy to him that loves his King.
To the Tune of, Let Caesar Live long.
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A Pox of the Fooling and Plotting of Late,
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What a pudder and stir has it kept in the State?
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Let the Rabble run Mad with Suspitons and Fears,
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Let um Scuffle and Rail till they go by the Ears;
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Their Grievances never shall trouble my Pate,
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So I but enjoy my dear Bottle at quiet.
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What Coxcombps were those that would ruine their case
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And their Necks for a Toy, a thin Wafer, and Mass?
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For at Tyburn they never had needed to swing,
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Had they been but true Subjects to drink and their King
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A friend and a Bottle is all my Design,
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Has no room for Treason thats top-ful of Wine.
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I mind not the Members and makers of Laws,
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Let em Sit or Prorogue as his Majesty please;
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Let em Dam us to Woolen, Ile never repine,
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At my Usage when Dead, so Alive I have Wine:
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Yet oft in my Drink I can hardly forbear,
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To blame them for making my Clarret so dear.
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I mind not Grave Asses who Joly Debate,
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About Rights and Successions th[e] Trifles of State:
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Weve a good King already, and he deserves Laughter,
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That will trouble his Head with who shall come after:
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Come heres to his Health, and I wish he may be
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As free from all care and all Troubles as we.
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WHat care I how Leagues with Hollanders go,
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Or Intreagues twixt Monsieurs or Dons for to know,
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What concerns it my drinking if Cities be fold,
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If the Conquerer takes them by Storming or Gold;
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From whence Claret comes is the place that I mind,
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And when the Fleets coming, I pray for a Wind.
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The Bully of France that aspires to Renown,
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By dull cutting of Throats, and by ventring his own:
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Let him fight till hes ruind, make Matches, and Treat:
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To afford us still News, the dull Coffee-house cheat:
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Hes but a brave Wretch, whilst that I am more free,
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More safe, and a thousand times happier then he.
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In spight of him, or the Pope, or the Devil,
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Or Faggot, or Fire, or the worst of Hells evil:
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I still will drink Healths to the Lovers of Wine,
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Those jovial brisk Blades that do never repine;
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Ile drink in Defiance of Napkin or Halter,
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Tho Religion turn round still, yet mine shall ner alter.
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But a Health to Good-fellows shall still be my care,
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And whilst wine it holds out we no bumpers will spare;
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Ile subscribe to Petitions for nothing but Claret,
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That that may be cheap heres both my hands for it;
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Tis my Province, and with it I only am pleasd,
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With the rest scolding Wives let poor Cuckolds appease
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No doubt tis the best of all Drinks, or so soon
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It ner had been chose by the Man in the Moon;
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Who drinks nothing else both by night and by day,
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But Claret, brisk Claret, as most people say:
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Whilst Glasses brim full to the Stars they go round,
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which makes them shine bryter with red juice still crown[d]
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For all things in nature does live by good Drinking,
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And hes a dull Fool and not worthy my thinking,
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That does not prefer it before all the Treasure
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The Indies contain, or the Sea without measure:
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Tis the Life of Good-fellows, for without it they pine,
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When nought can revive um but Brimmers of Wine.
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I know the refreshments that still it does bring,
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Which have oftentimes made me as great as a King;
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In the midst of his Armies, where ere he is found,
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Whilst the Bottles and Glasses Ive mustered round:
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Who are Bacchuss Warriors a Conquest will gain,
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Without the least Bloodshed of Wounded or slain.
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Then heres a good health to all those that love Peace,
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Let Plotters be damnd, and all Quarrels now cease;
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Let me but have Wine, and I care for no more,
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Tis a Treasure sufficient, theres none can be poor,
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That has Bacchus tos friend, for he laughs at all harm
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Whilst with high-proofed Claret he does himself Arm.
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