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Some preachers will tell you that whisky's bad;
I think so too,—if there's none to be had :
The swaddler* will bid you drink none at all;
But, while I can get it, a fig for them all.
Both layman and brother,

In spite of this pother,

Will all take a sup in their turn.


Some doctors will tell you, 'twill hurt your
The justice will say, 'twill reduce your wealth;
Physicians and lawyers both do agree,

When your money's all gone, they can get no fee.

Yet surgeon and doctor,

And lawyer and proctor,

Will all take a sup in their turn.

If a soldier is drunk on his duty found,
He to the three-legged horse is bound,
In the face of his regiment obliged to strip;
But a noggin will soften the nine-tailed whip.


* The Irish term for the followers of John Wesley. It arose from one of the early Methodists in Dublin, named Cennick, taking, on Christmas day, the text of his discourse from St. Luke's Gospel, ii. 12: "And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger." One of his auditors, who was ignorant of the text, " thought this," says Southey, so ludicrous, that he called the preacher a swaddler in derision; and this unmeaning word became a nickname of the Methodists, and had all the effect of the most opprobrious appellation." In John Wesley's journal he mentions that, during the riots which occurred in Cork during the months of May and Jure 1749, “The mob paraded the streets, armed with swords, staves, and pistols, crying out- Five pounds for a swaddler's head!""

For serjeant and drummer,
And likewise his honour,

Will all take a sup in their turn.

The Turks who arrived from the Porte sublime,
All told us that drinking was held a great crime;
Yet, after their dinner away they slunk,
And tippled whisky till they got quite drunk.*
The Sultan and Crommet,

And even Mahomet,

They all take a sup in their turn.

The Quakers will bid you from drink abstain,
By yea, and by nay, they will make it plain;
But some of the broad-brims will get the stuff,
And tipple away till they've tippled enough.
For Stiff-back and Steady,
And Solomon's lady,

Will all take a sup in their turn.

The Germans do say they can drink the most,
The French and Italians also do boast:

This is no stretch of fancy. The Editor recently met some Turks at dinner, who refused wine; he facetiously assured them that the law of the Prophet did not extend to Irish whisky, which word he could expound to them in English as literally meaning water. The consequence of this translation is faithfully given above. Another party of Turks, of whom the Editor has heard, consumed, on their passage in an English man-of-war, no inconsiderable quantity of champagne, which they called for and drank under the name of soda-water; observing, that English soda-water was a most refreshing beverage.

Hibernia's the country (for all their noise)
For generous drinking and hearty boys.
There each jovial fellow

Will drink till he's mellow,

And take off his glass in his turn.


Seems to have been a cant term for strong whisky, which, the Editor has been informed, was caused by the evidence given in a Court of law respecting one of the fair sex, who was delicately and mysteriously represented to have been "overtaken."

"What do you mean by being overtaken?" inquired the examining counsel. "Overtaken by whom?" By no one, yo'r honour. Oh! indeed, no one overtook her: it would be well for her if any decent Christian had done so."


"You said she was overtaken;-by whom, or what, was she overtaken ?”

"Oh, then, indeed she was overtaken by the liquor." "How overtaken? did she drink too much?"

"Lord love yo'r honour's innocent heart, I see ye know all about the matter. It overtook the poor girl sure enough; it came, for all the world, bounce upon Bess; it was so very strong it knocked her down so flat, she couldn't stand after it."

"Pray what liquor did she drink?"

"It was Walker's best whisky, yo'r honour."

In the "land of song," so fair an opportunity for recommending the potent effects of its national manufacture could scarcely have escaped without notice; and accordingly, in the following lyric, the merits of "Bounce upon Bess" are set forth.

The song is given from a manuscript copy, which has been in the Editor's possession upwards of twenty years. Mr. Walker was an eminent distiller in Cork.

Air-" The Priest and his Boots."

Come all you good fellows who love to be gay,
Who spend every night what you earn each day;
Drink deep of that liquor which Irishmen bless,
For you'll find no such cordial as "Bounce upon Bess."
Compared with this balsam, all drink is small beer;
What raises the spirits can never be dear:
The inside it warms, and it cheers up the heart,
And puts life in a man—from a gill to a quart.
Sing, fall de ral, &c.

Let Englishmen talk of their porter and ale,
Which grow very bad as they grow very stale;
But give Paddy the liquor to fuddle his nose,
Which improves the more as the older it grows.
In a glass it so clear and transparent appears,
'Tis as bright as the eye of your sweetheart in tears;
And, next to a smack of her lips, by my soul,

There is nothing like Walker's best "Bounce" in a bowl. Sing, fall de ral, &c.

When in winter, the frost of a morning feels raw,

Were the ice in your stomach, good Bounce would it thaw;
And for heat in the summer you'll care not a fig,
If of "Bounce upon Bess" you but take a full swig.
Oh! 'tis good in all weather, in each time and place,
To all ranks and professions it shews a bright face;
And if you had enough of it, neighbours, in store,
Oh, the devil a grief would come inside your door!
With, fall de ral, &c.

If at fair or at patron* your sweetheart you meet,
To a tent you invite her to drink and to eat ;
Let her eat what she will, but you can do no less
Than to mix for her tipple some "Bounce upon Bess!"
Though hard as a flint she looked on you before,
Her heart will grow soft, oh! 'twould melt on the floor;
And her eyes will so wink, that I'd venture to guess
She would pledge her best cloak for good "Bounce upon

Sing, fall de ral, &c.

All join, then, in chorus, may Bounce never fail;
And the man who produced it, may naught ever ail,
Who keeps up our spirits, and raises our land,
Should the good will of Irishmen always command.
May his still ever prosper, and prosper it will,
Whilst the fields supply barley, and he supplies skill;
And as for consumption, my hearties! 'tis said,
Oh, the devil our fellows lift hands to their head!
Sing, fall de ral, &c.

* A meeting dedicated to the honour of a Patron Saint.

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