Let it be genuine, bright and fine,
Pure unadulterated wine;

For if there's fault in tafte, or odour,
He'll fearch it as he fearch'd out Lauder

To Johnfon, philofophic fage,
The moral Mentor of the age,
Religion's friend, with foul fincere,
With melting heart, but look auftere,
Give liquor of an honeft fort,

And crown his cup with priefly Port!

Now fill the glafs with gay Champagne,

And frisk it in a livelier ftrain:

Quick! Quick! the fparkling nectar quaff, Drink it, dear Garrick !-drink and laugh!

Pour forth to Reynolds, without flint,
Rich Burgundy, of ruby tint;

If e'er his colours chance to fade,
This brilliant hue fhall come in aid,
With ruddy lights refresh the faces,
And warm the bofoms of the Graces.

To Burke a pure libation bring,
Fresh drawn from clear Caftalian spring
With civic oak the goblet bind,
Fit emblem of his patriot mind;

Let Clio as his taster sip.

And Hermes hand it to his lip.

Till up my friend. the Dean of Derry,

A bumper of conventual Sherry.

Give Ridge and Hi-ky, generous fouls ! Of Whisky punch convivial bowls; But let the kindred Eurkes regale With potent draughts of Wicklow Ale ; To Ck next, in order turn you, And grace him with the vines of Furney!

Now, DOCTOR, thou'it an honest sticker, So take your glafs, and chufe your liquor; Wilt have it fleep'd in Alpine fuows, Or damak'd at Silinas' nofe? Will Wakefield's Vicar fip your tea, Or to Thalia drink with me?

And, DOCTOR, I wou'd have you know it,
An honeft, I, tho' humble poet;

I fcorn the fneaker like a toad,
Who drives his cart the Dover road;
There traitor to his country's trade,
Smuggles vile fcraps of French brocade;
Hence, with all fuch ! for you and I,
By English wares will live and die.
Come, draw your chair and stir the fire:
Here, boy a pot of Thrale's Entire!

Ꭲ .

Written fome time fince by D. G, Esq.

ERE Hermes, fays Jove who with nectar was mellow,

HE

Go fetch me fome clay--I will make an odd fellow : Right and wrong fhall be jumbled,- much gold, and

fome drofs:

Without cause be he pleas'd, without cause be he cross; Be fure as I work, to throw in contradictions,

A

great love of truth; yet a mind turn'd to fictions; Now mix thefe ingredients, which warm'd in the baking,

Turn to Learning, and Gaming, Religion, and Raking, With the love of a wench, let his writings be chafte Tip his tongue with ftrange matter, his pen with fine

tafte,

That the Rake and the Poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and fet fire to the tail:

For the joy of each fex on the world I'll beftow it : This Scholar, Rake, Chriftian, Dupe, Gamefter, and Poet,

Tho' a mixture fo odd, he fhall merit great fame,

And among brother mortals-be GOLDSMITH his

name.

When on earth this ftrange meteor, no more fhall appear,

You Hermes fhall fetch him,-to make us fport here!