HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND !

Anonymous. From a half-sheet song, with the music, printed about the year 1710,

How stands the glass around ?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys!

How stands the glass around ?
Let mirth and wine abound !

The trumpets sound,
The colours flying are, my boys,

To fight, kill, or wound:

May we still be found
Content with our hard fare, my boys,

On the cold ground!

Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys !

Why, soldiers, why,
Whose business 'tis to die?

What, sighing? fie!
Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!

'Tis he, you, or I,

Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,

And scorn to fly.

'Tis but in vain
(I mean not to upbraid you, boys)

'Tis but in vain
For soldiers to complain;

Should next campaign
Send us to Him that made us, boys,

We're free from pain;

But should we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady

Cures all again.

The author of the beautiful music of this song is unknown. The melody_which is plaintive, and not at all of a bacchanalian character-has lately been revived in the Series of National English Melodies published in the “Illustrated London News."

This is commonly called General Wolfe's song, and is said to have been sung by nim on the night before the battle of Quebec; but it has been generally printed as a duet.

COME NOW, ALL YE SOCIAL POWERS.

Altered and enlarged from the finale of BICKERSTAFFE'S “Lionel and Clarissa, or the School for Fathers." The first three verses alone are by Dickerstaffe.

Music by CHARLES DIBDIN.

COME now,

all
ye
social

powers,
Shed
your

influence o'er us;
Crown with joy the present hours,

Enliven those before us.
Bring the flask, the music bring,

Joy shall quickly find us ;
Sport and dance, and laugh and sing,

And cast dull care behind us.

Love, thy godhead I adore,

Source of generous passion;
Nor will we ever bow before
Those idols, Wealth and Fashion.

Bring the flask, &c.

Why the plague should we be sad

Whilst on earth we moulder?
Rich or poor, or grave or mad,
We every day grow older.

Bring the flask, &c.
Friendship! oh, thy smile's divine,

Bright in all its features;
What but friendship, love, and wine,
Can make us happy creatures ?

Bring the flask, &c.

Since the time will pass away,

Spite of all our sorrow,
Let's be blithe and gay to-day,

And never mind to-morrow.
Bring the flask, the music bring,

Joy shall quickly find us,
Sport and dance, and laugh and sing,

And cast dull care behind us.

WHEN I DRAIN THE ROSY BOWL.

From the works of Anacreon, Sappho, &c., translated by the Rev. FRANCIS FAWKES.

8vo, London : 1761 Music by Baildon, a celebrated English glee-composer, between 1760 and 1780.

WHEN I drain the rosy bowl,
Joy exhilarates the soul;
To the Nine I raise my song,
Ever fair and ever young.
When full cups my cares expel,
Sober counsel, then farewell!
Let the winds that murmur sweep
All

my sorrows to the deep.
When I drink dull time away,
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay,
Leads me to delightful bowers,
Full of fragrance, full of flowers.
When I quaff the sparkling wine,
And my locks with roses twine ;
Then I praise life's rural scene
Sweet, sequester'd, and serene.
When I drink the bowl profound
(Richest fragrance flowing round)
And some lovely nymph detain,
Venus then inspires the strain.
When from goblets deep and wide
I exhaust the gen'rous tide,
All
my

soul unbends—I play
Gamesome with the

young

and

gay.

BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY.

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may ;
Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine's no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will

appear as short as one.

Yet this difference we may see
'Twixt the life of man and thee :
Thou art for this life alone,
Man seeks another when 'tis gone ;
And though allow'd its joys to share,
'Tis virtue here hopes pleasure there.

The old sheet-copies of this ballad say, "Made cxtempore by a gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of his cup of ale.” The gentleman is stated on some authorities to have been Vincent Bourne, and the date of the production, 1744. It was set to music as a duet for two voices by Dr. Greene. The last verse in the above copy was added by the Rev. J. Plumtre. The song is also attributed to Oldys, the antiquary:

WITH AN HONEST OLD FRIEND.

Poetry and Music by HENRY CAREY.

With an honest old friend and a merry

old

song,
And a flask of old port, let me sit the night long;
And laugh at the malice of those who repine
That they must swig porter, while I can drink wine.

I envy no mortal, though ever so great,
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate;
But what I abhor, and esteem as a curse,
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse.

Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay,
Let's merrily pass life's remainder away;
Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise,
For the more we are envied the higher we rise.

WHAT IS WAR AND ALL ITS JOYS?

THOMAS CHATTERTON, born 1752, died 1770.
What is war, and all its joys?
Useless mischief, empty noise ;
What are arms and trophies won?
Spangles glittering in the sun.
Rosy Bacchus give me wine;
Happiness is only thine.
What is love without the bowl?
'Tis a languor of the soul;
Crown'd with ivy Venus charms,
Ivy courts me to her arms.
Bacchus give me love and wine;
Happiness is only thine.

A POT OF PORTER, HO!
From the “Myrtle and the Vine, or Complete Vocal Library,” vol ü. A. D. 1800.
WHEN to Old England I come home,

Fal lal, fal lal la !
What joy to see the tankard foam,

Fal lal, fal lal la !
When treading London's well-known ground,

If e'er I feel my spirits tire,
I haul my sail, look up around,

In search of Whitbread's best entire.
Ι
spy the name of Calvert,

Of Curtis, Cox, and Co.
I give a cheer and bawl for't,-

• A pot of porter, ho!"
When to Old England I come home,
What joy to see the tankard foam !
With heart so light and frolic high,
I drink it off to liberty !
Where wine or water can be found,

Fal lal, fal lal la !
I've travell’d far the world around,

Fal lal, fal lal la !
Again I hope before I die,
Of England's can the taste to try;

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