The New York Journal, And Daily Patriotic Register

THE BACCHANALIAN.

Written by Mr. Woty.

Ye fordid wretches! chain'd to rules,
As stiles dull, and obstinate as mules,
Whose minds ne'er knew one liberal thought,
Back to your reaking miserable cells!
Where narrowness of thinking dwells,
With not one social sense or feeling fraught.

There free from tumult, free from strife,
In silence doze, nor snuff the wick of life:
But slow, let it waste away,
While cunning prudence plauds the saving scheme,
Nor let its flame so much as seem
To cast a glimpse of one eccentric ray.

Give me the man of blither soul,
Whose spirits thro' an ample channel roll!
Who, spite of method's drowsy plan,
Will plunge alert into a sea of joy,
And float on active fancy's buoy,
And snatch at fleeting pleasure, whilst he can.

See yonder festive, jocund band!
A nectar'd goblet gracing every hand:
Mirth opes the storehouse of the soul,
And on ill-nature turns the polish'd key;
Sullen the Demon lips away,
Nor dares exert the function of controul.

Thither let me bend in haste,
And embrace the bottle's waist,
Charms Anacreontic prove,
Quaffing to the God of love.
Laughter brushes paint his face,
And he looks a fresher grace,
When with Bacchus he reclines,
Underneath his purple vines.

How the jolly, hunting song,
Emblematic, loud, and strong,
On attention's organ dwells,
And for the force of cares dispels.
Till th' full-voic'd burling chorus
Sets the fox and hounds before us.

Sons of sorrow! quit your beds.
Seek the path which Bacchus treads,
Drown your avaricious notions
In the claret's lively potions:
Mind not what the miserly
Folly—'tis to earn his praise:
Or his constitution ails,
Or his avarice prevails,
Ere he be'd laugh, and drink, and be
Airy, tipey, gay as we.