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a prisoner back to England-thus escaping the punishment she so richly merited for her odious crime, although there were not wanting those who stoutly maintained that the charge had by no means been conclusively brought home to her. However, after occupying the public mind for more than the proverbial nine days, the "Youngson Case," as it was called, gave place to a fresher sensation.



If wine and music have the power

To ease the sickness of the soul.-Prior.

ROBABLY the great superiority of our English convivial songs over those of other nations is due to the peculiarly social character of the people. Nearly three hundred years have elapsed since the first English drinking song of merit was written, and during that time our noblest and best poets have paid their vows to Bacchus. The very wisest and the best of men have been, not drunkards, but wine drinkers; they have neither avoided the bottle nor concealed their regard for it. At all times men have sung of wine, and apparently all classes have found something to commend in the virtue of their lyrics. Horace sang of Falernian, Tom d'Urfey of wine, Bishop Still of ale, Rabelais of absinthe, and Burns of whisky. Unfortunately, Johnson had to shun the cup-he loved it too well. Addison was an acknowledged drinker, and Pope a secret one. Plato recommended wine, and Aristotle advised it.

The first drinking song of merit, in English, occurs in that quaint old comedy of Bishop Still's, "Gammer Gurton's Needle." The lines are too well known to need quoting :

I cannot eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I can drink

With him that wears a hood.

From the period when dancing round the Maypole was in vogue date these two songs. The first (1593) runs :

Bonny Bacchus, god of wines,
Cheese maintainer of our vines,
Sucker the soule in greefe which pines;

Water to drinke, I hold not goode,
Thy juice, O Bacchus, breeds best blood.
Nectar, good Bacchus, nectar send,
Brave Bacchus, do thy bounty lend;
Unto Tom Typsey stand a frend,
And so thy fame will never end.
Nectar, sweet nectar, is my wish,
Behold my tankard and my dish.

The second is as follows:

The gods of Love

Which raigne above,
Maintain this feast;

Let Bacchus find

Their hearts most kind

To every guest.

And long may Bacchus brave it here,

In pleasures to abound,

That wine and beer, and belly gut cheere,

With plenty here be found.

I pray likewise,

That ere you rise,

You drink your fill;

That no man want,

Nor find it skant,

Whereof to swill.

Then may you all carouse in blisse,
And bid farewell to woe;

Who lives in this he cannot misse,

But straight to Heaven goe.
Be merry all.

When Charles II. was king there was a great outburst of convivial song writing. Then lived and flourished the author of "Pills to Purge Melancholy "-Tom d'Urfey, over whose somewhat coarse wit Charles's wild Court used to spend many a night. Tom Brown also flourished in the seventeenth century. One of his best songs



Wine, wine in a morning,

Makes us frolic and gay,
That like eagles we soar
In the pride of the day;
Gouty sots of the night
Only find a decay.

'Tis the sun ripes the grape,

And to drinking gives light:

We imitate him

When by moon we're at heigh;

They steal wine who take it

When he's out of sight.

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Brome, the Attorney of the Lord Mayor's Court, the Royalist at heart and the Roundhead by force, published several of this class of songs in the "Rump." One "On Canary" is excellent :


Of all the rare juices

That Bacchus or Ceres produces,

There's none that I can, nor dare I,

Compare with the princely Canary.
For this is the thing

That a fancy infuses ;

This first got a king,

And next the nine Muses;

'Twas this made old poets so sprightly to sing,

And fill all the world with the glory and fame on't;

They Helicon call'd it, and the Thespian spring,

But this was the drink, though they knew not the name on't.

From the Revolution to the time of Burns, Dibdin, and Morris there is not much that is worth chronicling in the world of convivial song. Dibdin wrote a few and Sheridan a few, and Wolfe his noble "How stands the glass around?" Burns never penned a better song than "Willie brew'd a peck o' maut." It is inherent with cheerful good-fellowship, and very rhythmical in style. It is perhaps the best specimen of a drinking song which Scotland owns. Byron only left us one, "Fill the goblet again," and Tom Moore none, although such titles as "Come, send round the wine" and "Drink of this cup" are suggestive of conviviality. Barry Cornwall's are classical gems, particularly his lines entitled "Wine."

I love wine! Bold, bright wine!

That maketh the spirit both dance and shine!

Others may care for water fare,

But give me Wine!

and his still more poetical

Sing!-Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings?

Ah, who is this lady fine?

The Vine, boys, the Vine!

"Collection of the Choycest Poems and Songs relating to the late Times,

from 1639 to 1661."

The mother of mighty Wine,

A roamer is she

O'er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company.

We must not forget the following quaint song by the author of "The Groves of Blarney "-" Honest Dick Milliken."


Had I the tun which Bacchus used,

I'd sit on it all day;

For, while a can it ne'er refused,

He nothing had to pay.

My friend should sit as well as I,

And take a jovial pot;

For he who drinks-although he's dry-
Alone, is sure a sot.

But since the tun which Bacchus used

We have not here--what then?

Since god-like toping is refused,

Let's drink like honest men,

In the county of Somerset, even at the present time, the country people sing this version of the old song


God above, who rules all things,

Monks and abbots, and beggars and kings,

The ships that in the sea do swim,

The earth, and all that is therein,

Not forgetting the old cow's hide,

And everything else in the world beside,
And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell
Who first invented this leathern bottèl.

Oh! what do you say to the glasses fine?
Oh! they shall have no praise of mine.
Suppose a gentleman sends his man

To fill them with liquor as fast as he can,

The man he falls in coming away

And sheds the liquor so fine and gay.
But, &c.

Oh! what do you say to the tankard fine?

Oh! it shall have no praise of mine.

Suppose a man and his wife fall out,

And such things happen sometimes no doubt;
They pull and they haul; in the midst of the fray
They shed the liquor so fine and gay.

But, &c,

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