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Pray thee, lad, leave silly thinking,
cast thy cares of love away ;
Let our sorrows drown in drinking,
’tis daffin anger to delay.
See that shining glass of claret,
how invitingly it looks;
Tak it all, and let’s hae mair o't,
pox on lighting trade, and books.
Let’s hae mair pleasure while we’re able,
bring us in the meikle bowl,
Plac’t on the middle of the table,
and let wind and weather gowl.
Call the drawer, let him fill it
fou, as ever it can hold:
O tak tent ye dinna spill it,
’tis mair precious far than gold.
By you’ve drank a dozen bumpers,
Bacchus will begin to prove,
Spite of Venus and her mumpers,
drinking better is than love.
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A FRIENDLY ADVICE.
MORTALS, wifely learn to measure
Life, by the extent of joy ;
Life’s a short and fleeting pleasure:
Then be gay, while you may,
And your hours in mirth employ.
