Ode to Bacchus

written by The Honourable Major Hanger

The Music partly selected from Purcell, Handel, Arne, &c.

STROPHE.

ILLUSTRIOUS son of Jove and Semele,
To thee we dedicate this pile,
Built for the Heir-apparent of your isle,
Who must one day,
When Death shall call his powers into play,
Look on his subjects as a monstrous family.
Look down, thou ever-gracious God,
Attend thy suppliants' prayer;
Destroy Reflection by thy nod,
And shield us from Despair.
Oh! guard this consecrated haunt
From prostitution vile, and bailiff dire;
The means to celebrate thy glory grant;
Oh! give us fuel, to support the fire.
Let no base caitiff, armed with deadly writ,
Annoy the fancy, or congeal our wit.
Give us Euphrosyne, and all those dames,
Who wont of old to set the world in flames:
Awaken Phryne from her clay-cold tomb,
And call poor Lais from Creation's womb;
That we thy hallowed progeny may show,
Those heathen beauties in an envied row;
Eclipse King's Place in meretricious fame,
And make old Mother Windsor blush for shame.
With these united, boldly we'll advance,
And follow pleasure in the mazy dance.
With jocund step we'll nimbly trip,
As the high-mettled tribe
The grape's celestial joys imbibe,
And press the goblet to the parched lip.
But, zounds, can we be sorry, sad, or sick,
Who own the influence of laughing Dick
On Richard, name propitious to our cause,
To virtue dear, and honour'd by our Law. --
Damme, now I think on't, I'll give you a toast --
But let me see --
By heav'ns! I think we've three,
Who're in themselves a host!
DICK FITZPATRICK, DICK SHERIDAN, and DICK RIGBY,
With many other DICKS, that faint would big-be:
Come, charge your gaping glasses,
As if you were drinking MOTHER JOHNSON's lasses(?).
'Oh! give us young AUGUSTUS for a friend,
"Priests without Fraud, and RICHARDS without end."

ANTISTROPHE

That true born Britons may be freed from thinking,
And we eternally be drunk or drinking;
Empty the Thames, the Severn, Humber, Dee,
And bid their vile insipid waters flee;
Then exercise a privilege divine,
And fill their vast vacated wombs with wine.
Guard us, blithe Deity, whene'er we sleep,
And lead us from the dangers of the deep.¹
If ever I forget thy recent kindness,
May black Perdition strike me dark with blindness
May heaven suppress the greenness of my youth,
May I be ravished by the naked truth.²
But this is an episode,
That drags me out of my road;
I hope that mine's a muse,
Who'll really excuse
This wandering of my pen --
Phoebus, their chief, to crush poor George will pause;
Because --
I only vex the lady now and then
'Tis Bacchus only, ruby God, for thee,
We have establish'd this festivity:
To thee we give the festal lay;
To thee we dedicate the honours of the day.
I beg your pardon, Truth has set me right;
To thee we dedicate -- the honours of the night.

STROPHE

Though I'm a poor, forlorn, repentant sinner.
By that bitch of bitches, Fortune, hurl'd
An outcast in the world,
His HIGHNESS feels my wants, and gives POOR GEORGEY(?) dinner.
But let the royal Scion speak his will,
His faithful GEORGE will combat good or ill;
And mounting through the regions of the air,
Deflow'r Jove's proud paralytic bride,
Or in a fit of high-wrought fury tear
The blue-ey'd Hebe from the thunderer's side.
What say you, lads, shall we exert our powers,
Arrest old Time, and subjugate his hours?
Shall it be said that we despair?
Not I, nor you, nor you;
We'll seize that scoundrel Care,
And beat him black and blue;
We'll drag the woes of human life along,
As Humphreys active, as Mendossa strong.³
And, damme, I'll beat the Gods,
Ten to one,
Or give them the long odds --
The thing is done.

Chorus
Thou roseate child of Semele,
Protect this jovial family;
See the God descends,
Bacchus and we are friends.
Oh spiflicate that scoundrel Care,
Damme, kick him, never fear;
O may the powers gymnastic
Make the jolly God elastic.
Blood I never fear him, tho' he swaggers,
See already how the villain staggers;
Gross-buttock the vagabond, trip up his creepers,
Darken his day-lights and pepper his peepers.
Now at his bread basket, just in the nick there,
See the dog turns his breech about, give him a kick there.
Zounds! here's a fight should be sung by Apollo,
for Bacchus has beat the old reprobate bellow.
Now try your might,
Touch him under the left ribs -- that's right,
Repeat your blows --
There he goes --
Sew up his eyes;
Damme! there he lies,
Never, never, never, never more to rise.