Laudator Temporis Acti

Robert Burns (1759-1796), "Then Guidewife, Count the Lawin," The Canongate Burns (Edinburgh: Canongate Books Limited, 2003), p. 363:

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And blude-red wine's the rysin Sun.

Chorus
Then, guidewife, count the lawin, the lawin, the lawin,
Then guidewife count the lawin, and bring a coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen';
But here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that's drunk 's a lord.
    Then, guidewife, count the lawin, &c.

My coggie is a haly pool
That heals the wounds o' care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An ye drink it a', ye'll find him out.
    Then, guidewife, count the lawin, &c.

A coggie (diminutive of cog) is a drinking cup; fecht = fight, and fen' = fend; dool = dole, sorrow, grief.

Note (op. cit.):

The chorus of this is old but the verses are from Burns. The 'lawin' refers to the reckoning, or bill, an account paid at the end of the night's drinking — in modern colloquial Scots, the 'damage'.

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Aurelian Townshend (1583-1649), "A Bacchanall," Poems and Masks, ed. E.K. Chambers (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1912), pp. 7-8:

Bacchus, I-acchus, fill our Brains
  As well as Bowls with sprightly strains:
Let Souldiers fight for pay or praise,
  And mony be the Misers wish,
Poor Schollers study all their dayes,
  And Gluttons glory in their dish:
    'Tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls,
    Therefore give us the cheer in Bowls.
                        Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.
Let Minions Marshall ev'ry hair,
  Or in a Lovers lock delight,
And Artificiall colours wear,
  We have the Native Red and White:
    'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.
Take Phesant Poults, and calved Sammon,
  Or how to please your pallats think,
Give us a salt West-phalia Gammon,
  Not meat to eat, but meat to drink:
    'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.
Some have the Ptisick, some the Rhume,
  Some have the Palsie, some the Gout,
Some swell with fat, and some consume,
  But they are sound that drink all out:
    'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.
The backward spirit it makes brave,
  That forward which before was dull;
Those grow good fellows that were grave,
  And kindness flows from cups brim full:
    'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.
Some men want Youth, and some want health,
  Some want a Wife and some a Punke,
Some men want wit, and some want wealth,
  But they want nothing that are drunke:
    'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

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Robert Gilfillan (1798-1850), "Parody," in his Original Songs (Edinburgh: John Anderson, 1831), pp. 143-144 (line numbers added):

(Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whisky, in October, 1823)

Scots wha hae the duties paid;
Scots wham whisky's aft made glad;
Welcome, for the duty's fled,
        And it shall be free!

Now's the time and now's the hour;        5
See the shades of evening lour;
See the streams of toddy pour—
        Pledge it three-times-three!

Wha wad be a brandy slave?
Wha wad shilpit claret lave?        10
Wha of rum wad ever rave?
        When the whisky's free!

Wha for Scotia's ancient drink,
Will fill a bicker to the brink!
Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink,        15
        Aquavitae aye for me!

By taxation's woes and pains!
By the smuggler's ill-got gains!
We shall raise our wildest strains,
        For it shall be free!        20

Lay the big gin bottle low!
In the fire the port wine throw!
Let the tide of whisky flow!
        Like liberty, aye free!

10 shilpit: "Of liquor: Insipid, weak, thin" (Oxford English Dictionary)
14 bicker: "'A bowl or dish for containing liquor, properly one made of wood" (Jamieson's definition, quoted in Oxford English Dictionary)

The song is a parody of Burns' "Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled...." Gilfillan is my namesake.

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"In Praise of Ale," from Merry Drollery Compleat: or, A Collection of Jovial Poems, Merry Songs, Witty Drolleries, Intermixed with Pleasant Catches. The First Part. Collected by W.N. CB. R.S. J.G. Lovers of Wit (London: William Miller, 1691), pp. 164-165:

When the chill Charokoe blows,
And Winter tells a heavy tale,
And Pies and Daws, and Rooks and crows
Do sit and curse the frost and snows,
                Then give me Ale.

Ale in a Saxon Rumkin then,
Such as will make grim Malkin prate,
Bids Valour bargain in tall men,
Quickens the Poets Wits and Pen,
                Despises Fate.

Ale, that the absent Battel fights
And forms the March of Swedish Drums,
Disputes the Princes Laws and Rights,
What's past and done tells mortall Wights,
                And what's to come.

Ale, that the Plough-mans heart up keeps,
And equals it to Tyrants Thrones:
That wipes the eye that ever weeps,
And lulls in sweet and dainty sleeps
                Their very bones.

Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus Daughter,
Wines emulous Neighbour, if but stale:
Ennobling all the Nymphs of Water,
And filling each mans heart with laughter,
                Oh give me Ale.

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Marc-Antoine Girard, sieur de Saint-Amant (1594-1661), wrote a poem on cheese (first line "Assis sur le bord d'un chantier"). While trying, without success, to find an English translation, I came across a version of another one of Saint-Amant's poems, by Walter Besant (1836-1901) in his book The French Humourists, from the Twelfth to the Nineteenth Century (London: Richard Bentley and Sons, 1873), pp. 186-187:

In idle rhymes we waste our days,
With yawning fits for all our praise,
While Bacchus, god of mirth and wine,
Invites us to a life divine.
Apollo, prince of bards and prigs,
May scrape his fiddle to the pigs;
And for the Muses, old maids all,
Why let them twang their lyres, and squall
Their hymns and odes on classic themes,
Neglected by their sacred streams.
As for the true poetic fire,
What is it but a mad desire?
While Pegasus himself, at best,
Only a horse must be confess'd;
And he must be an ass indeed,
Who would bestride the winged steed.

Bacchus, thou who watchest o'er
All feasts of ours, whom I adore
With each new draught of rosy wine
That makes my red face like to thine—
By thy ivied coronet,
By this glass with rubies set,
By thy thyrsus—fear of earth—
By thine everlasting mirth,
By the honor of the feast,
By thy triumphs, greatest, least,
By thy blows, not struck, but drunk,
With king and bishop, priest and monk,
By the jesting, keen and sharp,
By the violin and harp,
By the bells, which are but flasks,
By our sighs which are but masks
Of mirth and sacred mystery,
By thy panthers fierce to see,
By this place so fair and sweet,
By the he-goat at thy feet,
By Ariadne, buxom lass,
By Silenus on his ass,
By this sausage, by this stoup,
By this rich and thirsty soup,
By this pipe from which I wave
All the incense thou dost crave,
By this ham, well spiced, long hung,
By this salt and wood-smoked tongue,
Receive us in the happy band
Of those who worship glass in hand.
And, to prove thyself divine,
Leave us never without wine.

Besant's translation is rather free, and omits several lines (17-34) of the original, which can be found in Oeuvres complètes de Saint-Amant, ed. Ch.-L. Livet, Vol. 1 (Paris: P. Jannet, 1855), pp. 135-138 (footnotes omitted, line numbers added):

Nous perdons le temps à rimer,
Amis, il ne faut plus chommer;
Voicy Bacchus qui nous convie
A mener bien une autre vie;
Laissons là ce fat d'Apollon,        5
Chions dedans son violon;
Nargue du Parnasse et des Muses,
Elles sont vieilles et camuses;
Nargue de leur sacré ruisseau,
De leur archet, de leur pinceau,        10
Et de leur verve poétique,
Qui n'est qu'une ardeur frenetique;
Pegase enfin n'est qu'un cheval,
Et pour moi je croy, cher Laval,
Que qui le suit et luy fait feste,        15
Ne suit et n'est rien qu'une beste.

Morbleu! comme il pleut là-dehors!
Faisons pleuvoir dans nostre corps
Du vin, tu l'entens sans le dire,
Et c'est là le vray mot pour rire;        20
Chantons, rions, menons du bruit,
Buvons icy toute la nuit,
Tant que demain la belle Aurore
Nous trouve tous à table encore.
Loing de nous sommeil et repos;        25
Boissat, lors que nos pauvres os
Seront enfermez dans la tombe
Par la mort, sous qui tout succombe,
Et qui nous poursuit au galop,
Las! nous ne dormirons que trop.        30
Prenons de ce doux jus de vigne;
Je voy Faret qui se rend digne
De porter ce dieu dans son sein,
Et j'approuve fort son dessein.

Bacchus! qui vois notre desbauche,        35
Par ton sainct portrait que j'esbauche
En m'enluminant le museau
De ce trait que je boy sans eau;
Par ta couronne de lierre,
Par la splendeur de ce grand verre,        40
Par ton thirse tant redouté,
Par ton eternelle santé,
Par l'honneur de tes belles festes,
Par tes innombrables conquestes,
Par les coups non donnez, mais bus,        45
Par tes glorieux attribus,
Par les hurlemens des Menades,
Par le haut goust des carbonnades,
Par tes couleurs blanc et clairet,
Par le plus fameux cabaret,        50
Par le doux chant de tes orgyes,
Par l'esclat des trognes rougies,
Par table ouverte à tout venant,
Par le bon caresme prenant,
Par les fins mots de ta cabale,        55
Par le tambour et la cymbale,
Par tes cloches qui sont des pots,
Par tes soupirs qui sont des rots,
Par tes hauts et sacrés mysteres,
Par tes furieuses pantheres,        60
Par ce lieu si frais et si doux,
Par ton boucq paillard comme nous,
Par ta grosse garce Ariane,
Par le vieillard monté sur l'asne,
Par les Satyres tes cousins,        65
Par la fleur des plus beaux raisins,
Par ces bisques si renommées,
Par ces langues de bœuf fumées,
Par ce tabac, ton seul encens,
Par tous les plaisirs innocens,        70
Par ce jambon couvert d'espice,
Par ce long pendant de saucisse,
Par la majesté de ce broc,
Par masse, toppe, cric et croc,
Par cette olive que je mange,        75
Par ce gay passeport d'orange,
Par ce vieux fromage pourry,
Bref, par Gillot, ton favory,
Reçoy-nous dans l'heureuse trouppe
Des francs chevaliers de la couppe,        80
Et, pour te montrer tout divin,
Ne la laisse jamais sans vin.

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"A Sequence in Praise of Wine," in John Addington Symonds, Wine, Women, and Song: Mediaeval Latin Students' Songs. Now First Translated into English Verse, with an Essay (London: Chatto and Windus, 1884), pp. 136-137:

Wine the good and bland, thou blessing
Of the good, the bad's distressing,
Sweet of taste by all confessing,
    Hail, thou world's felicity!
Hail thy hue, life's gloom dispelling;
Hail thy taste, all tastes excelling;
By thy power, in this thy dwelling
    Deign to make us drunk with thee!

Oh, how blest for bounteous uses
Is the birth of pure vine-juices!
Safe's the table which produces
    Wine in goodly quality.
Oh, in colour how auspicious!
Oh, in odour how delicious!
In the mouth how sweet, propitious
    To the tongue enthralled by thee!

Blest the man who first thee planted,
Called thee by thy name enchanted!
He whose cups have ne'er been scanted
    Dreads no danger that may be.
Blest the belly where thou bidest!
Blest the tongue where thou residest!
Blest the mouth through which thou glidest,
    And the lips thrice blest by thee!

Therefore let wine's praise be sounded,
Healths to topers all propounded;
We shall never be confounded,
    Toping for eternity!
Pray we: here be thou still flowing,
Plenty on our board bestowing,
While with jocund voice we're showing
    How we serve thee—Jubilee!

There are many versions of the Latin. Here is one (perhaps the one used by Symonds, who omitted the fourth stanza), as printed in Gaudeamus! Carmina Vagorum Selecta in Usum Laetitiae, ed. R. Peiper (Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1877), pp. 17-19 (I've added a comma after the second line):

1. Vinum bonum et suaue,
bonis bonum, prauis praue,
cunctis dulcis sapor, aue
    mundana laetitia!
Aue color uini clari!
aue sapor sine pari;
tua nos inebriari
    digneris potentia!

2. O quam felix creatura,
quam produxit uitis pura!
omnis mensa fit secura
    in tua praesentia.
O quam placens in colore,
o quam fragrans in odore,
o quam sapidum in ore,
    dulcis linguae cingula.

3. Felix homo te plantauit,
qui te uinum nuncupauit;
contra talem qui potauit
    nulla sunt pericula.
Felix uenter quem intrabis,
felix lingua quam rigabis,
felix os quod tu lauabis
    et beata labia!

4. [Aue sospes in modestis,
in gulosis mala pestis,
post amissionem uestis
    sequitur patibulum.
Monachorum grex deuotus,
omnis ordo, mundus totus
bibunt ad aequales potus
    et nunc et in saeculum.]

5. Ergo uinum collaudemus,
potatores exaltemus!
non potantes confundemus
    in aeterna saecula.
Supplicamus: hic abunda!
per te mensa fit fecunda,
et nos cum uoce iucunda
    deducamus gaudia!

As is well known, this is a parody of a sequence to the Blessed Virgin Mary, in Analecta Hymnica Medii Aevi, Vol. LIV (Leipzig: G.R. Reisland, 1915), p. 343 (no. 218):

Verbum bonum et suave
Personemus, illud Ave,
Per quod Christi fit conclave
    Virgo, mater, filia;

Per quod Ave salutata,
Mox concepit fecundata
Virgo, David stirpe nata,
    Inter spinas lilia.

Ave, veri Salomonis
Mater, vellus Gedeonis,
Cuius magi tribus donis
    Laudant puerperium;

Ave, solem genuisti,
Ave, prolem protulisti;
Mundo lapso contulisti
    Vitam et imperium.

Ave, mater verbi summi,
Maris portus, signum dumi,
Aromatum virga fumi,
    Angelorum domina;

Supplicamus, nos emenda,
Emendatos nos commenda
Tuo nato ad habenda
    Sempiterna gaudia.

Here is a translation of the Marian sequence by G[eorge] H[erbert] P[almer] in The Hymner: Containing Translations of the Hymns from the Sarum Breviary together with Sundry Sequences & Processions, 2nd ed. (London: Plainsong & Medieval Music Society, 1905), p. 140:

Sing we 'Ave,' word endearing,
O Mary's welcome, sweet and cheering,
When th' expected hour was nearing
    To the Daughter, Mother, Maid;

At the quick'ning salutation,
David's seed of royal station
Won the Lord of all creation,
    Lily 'mid the thorns display'd.

Ave! with their trine oblation
Sages gave thee salutation,
Gideon's fleece prefiguration,
    Mother of true Solomon;

Ave! Sun resplendent bearing,
Virgin, joy maternal sharing,
For a fallen world preparing
    Life in glory, and a throne.

Ave! Branch of perfume rarest,
Burning Bush, the Word who barest,
Queen of Angels, best and fairest,
    Port for wanderers o'er the sea;

From thy Son, by intercession,
Mercy win for our transgression,
And a title to possession
    Of eternal bliss with thee.

The parody is most noticeable in the first and last stanzas.

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Greek Anthology 10.118 (anonymous, translated by W.R. Paton):

How was I born? Whence am I? Why came I here? To depart again? How can I learn aught, knowing nothing? I was nothing and was born; again I shall be as at first. Nothing and of no worth is the race of men. But serve me the merry fountain of Bacchus; for this is the antidote of ills.

Translated by J.W. Mackail:

How was I born? whence am I? why did I come? to go again: how can I learn anything, knowing nothing? Being nothing, I was born; again I shall be as I was before; nothing and nothing-worth is the human race. Come then, serve to me the joyous fountain of Bacchus; for this is the drug counter-charming ills.

Verse translation by J.H. Merivale:

Whence was I born, and how?
  How was I born, and why?
Alas! I nothing know,
  But, born, that I must die.
From nothing I was born;
To nothing must return.
The end and the beginning
  Of life is nothingness—
Of losing, or of winning,
  Of pleasure, or distress.
Then give me wine at least;
There's nought left but to feast.

Verse translation by George Burges:

How born, and where, and why? To go I came;
  And knowing nothing, nothing learn I can.
Nothing I was when born; and still the same
  Nothing shall be. Such is the race of man.
The pleasure-loving cup of Bacchus fill;
'Tis the sole antidote for every ill.

The Greek:

πῶς γενόμην; πόθεν εἰμί; τίνος χάριν ἦλθον; ἀπελθεῖν;
  πῶς δύναμαί τι μαθεῖν, μηδὲν ἐπιστάμενος;
οὐδὲν ἐὼν γενόμην πάλιν ἔσσομαι ὡς πάρος ἦα·
  οὐδὲν καὶ μηδὲν τῶν μερόπων τὸ γένος.
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε μοι Βάκχοιο φιλήδονον ἔντυε νᾶμα·
  τοῦτο γάρ ἐστι κακῶν φάρμακον ἀντίδοτον.

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The Vaux-de-Vire of Maistre Jean Le Houx, Advocate of Vire, ed. and tr. James Patrick Muirhead (London: John Murray, 1875), pp. 25 and 27:

OLD MAN.
I ask your counsel for my health;
  In your great wisdom I confide;
'Twill add, too, somewhat to your wealth.

PHYSICIAN.
  For you my best skill shall be tried,
For you prescribing faithfully;
And I decline your proffer'd fee.

OLD MAN.
What must I take to cure my cough,
  And this continual catarrh
Which threatens soon to cut me off?

PHYSICIAN.
  Recipe:—Juice of plants that are
Well trained around vine-pole to climb;
Take twice or thrice at each meal-time.

OLD MAN.
I suffer great debility
  Of stomach: hardly can digest,
Engendering a crudity.

PHYSICIAN.
  Recipe:—Daily, as is best,
Administer, in dental way,
Red syrup of the Orleanais.

OLD MAN.
In change of weather gout doth keep
  The joints of all my bones in pain,
So that at night I cannot sleep.

PHYSICIAN.
Recipe:—Three times o'er, again,
And more, decoction of the vine;
Don't heed so much those crowns of thine.

OLD MAN.
Your Recipes are always wine.
  Is wine so very good a thing?
Without it, fails your medicine!

PHYSICIAN.
  I'm always safe in ordering
Those of my humour such a dose;
For wine alone cures all my woes.

French on pp. 24 and 26:

LE VIEILLARD.
Conseillez moy pour ma santé,
Car vous scauez la medecine;
Et vous serez bien contenté.

LE MEDECIN.
Pour vous j'emploiray ma doctrine,
Vous conseillant fidellement,
Et ne veux poinct de vostre argent.

LE VIEILLARD.
Que faut il pour ma toux garir
Et le rheume qui me tourmente
Et cuide me faire mourir?

LE MEDECIN.
Recipe du jus de la plante
Qui se soustient par echalas
Deux ou trois fois a ton repas.

LE VIEILLARD.
J'ay l'estomach debilité,
Si bien qu'a grand'peine il diggere
M'engendrant vne crudité.

LE MEDECIN.
Recipe pour ton ordinaire
Et te donne a trauers les dens
Du rouge cyrop d'Orleans.

LE VIEILLARD.
La goutte aux ioinctures des os
Me tient alors que le temps change,
Si bien que j'en perdz le repos.

LE MEDECIN.
De decoction de vandange
Recipe trois voltes & plus:
Ne songe tant en tes escus.

LE VIEILLARD.
Tous vos Recipes sont de vin.
Le vin, est ce chose si bonne?
Sans luy ne seriez medecin!

LE MEDECIN.
A tous ceux la le vin j'ordonne,
Qui en humeur me sont egaux,
Car le vin garit tous mes maux.

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Thomas Nabbes (1605-1641), Upon Excellent Strong Beer Which He Drank at the Town of Wich in Worcestershire, Where Salt is Made:

Thou ever youthful god of wine,
Whose burnish'd cheeks with rubies shine,
And brows with ivy chaplets crown'd,
We dare thee here to pledge a round!
    Thy wanton grapes we do detest;    5
    Here's richer juice from barley press'd.

Let not the Muses vainly tell
What virtue's in the horse-hoof well,
That scarce one drop of good blood breeds,
But with mere inspiration feeds;    10
    O let them come and taste this beer,
    And water henceforth they'll forswear.

If that the Paracelsian crew
The virtues of this liquor knew,
Their endless toils they would give o'er,    15
And never use extractions more.
    'Tis medicine; meat for young and old;
    Elixir; blood of tortured gold.

It is sublimed; it's calcinate;
'Tis rectified; precipitate;    20
It is Androgena, Sol's wife;
It is the Mercury of life;
    It is the quintessence of malt;
    And they that drink it want no salt.

It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills;    25
Men's heads with proclamations fills;
It makes some dumb, and others speak;
Strong vessels hold, and crack'd ones leak;
    It makes some rich, and others poor;
    It makes, and yet mars many a score.    30

8 the horse-hoof well: Hippocrene
13 Paracelsian crew: alchemists

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Thomas Blacklock, On Punch: An Epigram, in Poems on Several Occasions (Edinburgh: Hamilton, Balfour and Neill, 1754), p. 179:

Hence! restless care, and low design;
Hence! foreign compliments and wine:
Let gen'rous BRITONS, brave and free,
Still boast their Punch and honesty.
Life is a bumper fill'd by fate,
And we the guests who share the treat;
Where strong, insipid, sharp and sweet,
Each other duly temp'ring, meet.
A while with joy the scene is crown'd;
A while the catch and toast go round:
And, when the full carouse is o'er,
Death puffs the lights, and shuts the door.
Say then, Physicians of each kind,
Who cure the body, or the mind;
What harm in drinking can there be,
Since Punch and life so well agree?

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Thomas Warton (1728-1790), A Panegyric on Oxford Ale:

      Mea nec Falernae
Temperant vites, neque Formiani
      Pocula colles.
Hor.

BALM of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,
Hail, JUICE benignant! O'er the costly cups
Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,
Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night;
My sober evening let the tankard bless,    5
With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,
While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs
Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!
Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys
Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my soul    10
A calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance
Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod
Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed
Its opiate influence. What tho' sore ills    15
Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals
Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight's gleam
Haply remaining) heart-rejoicing ALE
Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.
Meantime, not mindless of the daily task    20
Of Tutor sage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep SMIGLECIUS much I meditate;
While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid,
The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,
Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friends    25
Congenial call me from the toilsome page,
To Pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,
Where, ALE, thy votaries in full resort
Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair
Of monumental oak and antique mould,    30
That long has stood the rage of conquering years
Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair
Smokes rosy Justice, when th' important cause,
Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,
In all the majesty of paunch he tries)    35
Studious of ease, and provident, I place
My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round
Returns replenish'd the successive cup,
And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:
While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hours    40
In innocent delight, amusive Putt
On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play
The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.
Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs,
Nor, call'd for, chills my breast with sudden fear;    45
While on the wonted door, expressive mark,
The frequent penny stands describ'd to view,
In snowy characters and graceful row.—

Hail, TICKING! surest guardian of distress!
Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff    50
The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart
New oysters cry'd;—tho' much the Poet's friend,
Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain,
Accept this tribute of poetic praise!

Nor Proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms    55
Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof
Of Pot-house snug to visit: wiser he
The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house
Of JAMES or JUGGINS, where the grateful breath
Of loath'd tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;    60
But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,
While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl,
Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler Ale:
In vain—the Proctor's voice arrests their joys;
Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!    65

Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,
All-pow'rful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweets
Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,
When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand
Not unexperienc'd; while the tedious toil    70
Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain
Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,
Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:
Be mine each morn with eager appetite
And hunger undissembled, to repair    75
To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust
And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain'd,
Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days
Our ancestors robust with liberal cups
Usher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sons    80
Of modern times: nor ever had the might
Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed,
With British ALE improving British worth.

With ALE irriguous, undismay'd I hear
The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome    85
Importunate: whether the plaintive voice
Of Laundress shrill awake my startled ear;
Or Barber spruce with supple look intrude;
Or Taylor with obsequious bow advance;
Or Groom invade me with defying front    90
And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds
(Whene'er or Phoebus shone with kindlier beams,
Or luckier chance the borrow'd boots supply'd)
Had panted oft beneath my goring steel.
In vain they plead or threat: all-pow'rful ALE    95
Excuses new supplies, and each descends
With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:
E'en SPACEY with indignant brow retires,
Fiercest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.

Why did the Gods such various blessings pour    100
On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands
So soon the short-liv'd bounty to recall?—
Thus while, improvident of future ill,
I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroll'd,
And thoughtless riot in unlicens'd bliss;    105
Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)
Th' unpitying Bursar's cross-affixing hand
Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.
Nor now the friendly Pot-house longer yields
A sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies;    110
Nor SHEPPARD, barbarous matron, longer gives
The wonted trust, and WINTER ticks no more.

Thus ADAM, exil'd from the beauteous scenes
Of Eden, griev'd, no more in fragrant bow'r
On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale    115
No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;
But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness
And unrejoicing solitudes to trace:
Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds
The SPLENDID SHILLING'S praise, in nightly gloom    120
Of lonesome garret, pin'd for cheerful ALE;
Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,
Mean follower: like him with honest love
Of ALE divine inspir'd, and love of song.
But long may bounteous Heav'n with watchful care    125
Avert his hapless lot! Enough for me
That burning with congenial flame I dar'd
His guiding steps at distance to pursue,
And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains.

A few notes:

22 Martinus Smiglecius' Logica (1618) was a textbook at Oxford.

49, 112 Tick (from ticket) as a noun means "credit," as a verb means "buy on credit." Could TICKING in line 49 be not a proper name but the practice of giving or getting credit?

50 A reference to Penniless Bench: see John Richard Green, Oxford Studies (London: Macmillan, 1901), pp. 275-276.

120 Splendid Shilling was a poem by John Philips (1676-1708).

Charles Spencelayh, Good Health

Labels: nunc est bibendum

There seem to be several versions extant of The Toper's Apology by Charles Morris (1745-1838). The following is from Lyra Urbanica; or, The Social Effusions of the Celebrated Captain Charles Morris of the Late Life-Guards, vol. I (London: Richard Bentley, 1840), pp. 73-76:

I'm often ask'd by plodding souls,
  And men of crafty tongue,
What joy I take in draining bowls
  And tippling all night long.
Now, though these cautious knaves I scorn,
  For once I'll not disdain
To tell them why I sit till morn,
  And fill my glass again;

'Tis by the glow my bumper gives,
  Life's picture's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
  And softly sinks the shade.
Some happier tint still rises there,
  With every drop I drain—
And that I think's a reason fair
  To fill my glass again.

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry
  No frolic flight will take;
But round a bowl she'll dip and fly,
  Like swallows round a lake.
Then, if the nymph will have her share
  Before she'll bless her swain—
Why that I think's a reason fair
  To fill my glass again.

In life I've rung all changes too,
  Run every pleasure down,
Tried each extreme of Fancy through,
  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.

Then, many a lad I liked 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—
And that I think's a reason fair
  To fill my glass again.

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state
  In these convulsive days,
I can't endure the ruin'd fate,
  My sober eye surveys.
But 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare,
  I see the gloom less plain—
And 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 prosed by some dull reasoning ass,
  Who treads the path of care;
Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear
Some coxcomb's fribbling strain—
And that I think's a reason fair
  To fill my glass again.

Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too,
  With different holds entwine?
While nought but death can some undo,
  There's some give way to wine.
With me the lighter head I wear
  The lighter hangs the chain—
And that I think's a reason fair
  To fill my glass again.

And now I'll tell, to end my song,
  At what I most repine:
This cursed war, or right or wrong,
  Is war against all wine;
Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare
  As juice of France or Spain—
And that I think's a reason fair
  To fill my glass again.

To my ear, the fifth stanza has the ring of one of A.E. Housman's lyrics. There is a clever translation of The Toper's Apology by R.Y. Tyrrell "into a Greek song in the metre of the famous scolion about Harmodius and Aristogiton" in The Classical Review 7 (1893) 368-369.

Lyra Urbanica contains many delightful verses in the Anacreontic vein, and I may post more of them in future. According to a disapproving notice by S. Austin Allibone in A Critical Dictionary of English Literature and British and American Authors Living and Deceased, Vol. II (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Company, 1891), p. 1321, Captain Charles Morris

served in the British army during the American Revolution, in the 17th Regiment of Foot; on his return to England he exchanged to a dragoon-regiment, and subsequently entered the Life-Guards. He married the widow of Sir William Stanhope. He was a great favourite in fashionable society, for the amusement of which he wrote many bacchanalian songs and uttered many witty sayings.

Morris is such a minor figure that he doesn't even merit an entry in Margaret Drabble, The Oxford Companion to English Literature, 5th ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985). But his graceful verses are pleasing, and he deserves to be rescued from oblivion.

Captain Charles Morris
Related posts:

• A Fig for Chink
  
• Drinking Songs
  
• Saturday Salmagundi

Labels: nunc est bibendum

In my list of drinking songs by the Chesterbelloc, I overlooked Hilaire Belloc's West Sussex Drinking Song:

They sell good Beer at Haslemere
And under Guildford Hill.
At Little Cowfold, as I've been told,
A beggar may drink his fill:
There is a good brew in Amberley too,
And by the bridge also;
But the swipes they take in at Washington Inn
Is the very best Beer I know, the very best Beer I know.

With my here it goes, there it goes,
All the fun's before us;
The tipple's aboard and the night is young,
The door's ajar and the Barrel is sprung,
I am singing the best song ever was sung
And it has a rousing chorus.

If I were what I never could be,
The master or the squire:
If you gave me the hundred from here to the sea,
Which is more than I desire:
Then all my crops should be barley and hops,
And should my harvest fail
I'd sell every rood of mine acres, I would,
For a bellyful of good Ale, a bellyful of good Ale.

With my here etc.

I suspect that the following verses by D.B. Wyndham Lewis, with the bombastic title Song in Praise of Saint Dunstan and the Holy Country of Sussex, and to the Eternal Confusion of Them That Live in Surrey and Do Very Damnably Peddle in Stocks; Peccator Videbit et Irascetur; Meet to be Sung at Hock-Tide and Festivals with Octave, are a parody of the Chestertonian/Bellocian manner:

  I

Saint Dunstan was a Sussex Man,
  Benedicamus Domino.
He drank strong ale from a silver can,
  Semper sit laudatio.
The Devil came bouncing out of Surrey
And left for home in a devilish hurry,
At Gué-de-Vède he lost his way --
He found it again at Buzançay.

Chorus

Oh, snouts are red at Wisboro' Green,
And they whack the pot like men, I ween,
In Horsham Town and Helling-ly,
In little Alfriston and in Rye.

  II

The Devil he lived round Hindhead way,
  Bombinans in vacuo.
He snatched five brokers' souls away,
  Mortis in articulo.
But when he got to Roundabout
They banged him silly and threw him out,
At Storrington they gnawed his ear --
They welcomed him at Haslemere.

Chorus

Oh, the lads of Sussex swagger and screech
From Ditchling Beacon to Hastings Beach,
And Sussex men do bellow and sing
From Birling Gap to Chancton Ring.

  III

The Devil flew off to Périgueux,
  Tamquam leo rugiens.
By Folq-les-Rois, Fijeac, and Eu,
  Prae timore fugiens.
But Saint Dunstan he called the Sussex Men
From barn and sheepfold, byre and pen,
From Harting, Houndsditch, Troon, and Tring,
And they roared and howled like anything.

Chorus

Oh, the brown ale foams in Uckfield inns,
And in Lewes they drink from salmon-tins,
But the Sussex lads who roar the most
Take a genteel sip and give up the ghost.

Labels: nunc est bibendum