What care I how leagues with Hollanders go,
Or intrigues 'twist Mounsieurs or Dons for to?
What concerns it my drinking if cities be sold,
If the conqueror takes them by storming or gold?
From whence claret comes is the place that I mind,
And when the fleet's coming I pray for a wind.
The bully of France that aspires to renown
By dull cutting of throats, and by venturing his own;
Let him fight till he's ruined, make matches, and treat,
To afford us still news, the dull coffee-house cheat:
He's but a brave wretch, whilst that I am more free,
More safe, and a thousand times happier than he.
In spite of him, or the Pope, or the Devil,
Or faggot, or fire, or the worst of hell's evil,
I still will drink healths to the lovers of wine,
Those jovial, brisk blades that do never repine;
I'll drink in defiance of napkin or halter,
Tho' religion turn round still, yet mine shall ne'er alter.
But a health to good fellows shall still be my care,
And whilst wine it holds out, no bumpers we'll spare.
I'll subscribe to petitions for nothing but claret,
That that may be cheap, here's both my hands for it;
'Tis my province, and with it I only am pleased,
With the rest, scolding wives let poor cuckolds appease.
No doubt 'tis the best of all drinks, or so soon
It ne'er had been chose by the Man in the Moon,
Who drinks nothing else, both by night and by day
But claret, brisk claret, and most people say,
Whilst glasses brimful to the stars they go round,
Which makes them shine brighter with red juice still crown'd.
For all things in Nature doe live by good drinking,
And he's a dull fool, and not worthy my thinking,
That does not prefer it before all the treasure
The Indies contain, or the sea without measure;
'Tis the life of good fellows, for without it they pine,
When nought can revive them but brimmers of wine.
I know the refreshments that still it does bring,
Which have oftentimes made us as great as a king
In the midst of his armies where'er he is found,
Whilst the bottles and glasses I've muster'd round;
Who are Bacchus' warriors a conquest will gain
Without the least bloodshed, or wounded, or slain.
Then here's a good health to all those that love peace,
Let plotters be damn'd and all quarrels now cease
Let me but have wine and I care for no more,
'Tis a treasure sufficient; there's none can be poor
That has Bacchus to's friend, for he laughs at all harm,
Whilst with high-proofed claret he does himself arm.