“Can gold, I would ask, e’er enliven the soul
Like the juice of the grape, or a full flowing bowl?
Can the glittering bauble such pleasure impart,
Or make the blood circle so warm round the heart?
“That gold is an evil, there’s many will say,
As my vot’ries oft find when the reck’ning’s to pay;
Had gold ne’er existed, the true jolly fellow
For ever might tipple, and always get mellow.
“I swear by old Styx!—that this truth it will stand:”
But the wine in his noddle usurp’d the command,—
A knock-’em-down argument Bacchus soon found,
For quickly he measur’d his length on the ground.
“As Bacchus is down,” then says Plutus, “I’ll rise;”
And this speech he address’d to the knobs of the skies:—
“That gold is a blessing, I’m sure I can prove:
The soother of cares, and cementer of love!
“You know the old proverb, of poverty, sure,
’Tis something about—‘when she enters the door,
That love, through the window, soon toddles away;’
But if there were gold, I’m sure that he’d stay.
“I’ll own that my bounties are sometimes misus’d:
But pray why should I, sirs, for that be abus’d?”
Here Jove stopp’d him short, and with positive air,
Insisted that they should their quarrel forbear.
“Your claims I admit, sir, and Bacchus’ too;
But a plan to unite you, I now have in view;
You know Tommy Bish?”—“To be sure!” exclaim all,
“’Tis on him, that dame Fortune her bounty lets fall!”
“Well,—a Lottery he’s plann’d, with an union rare,
Where money and wine each come in for a share;
There are three thirty thousands to gratify you;
And the twelve pipes of wine, sirs, for Bacchus will do.”
Says Bacchus to Plutus—“Then give us your hand,
I’ll tipple his wine, till no more I can stand;
And as Jove has inform’d us there’s money enough,
Why you, Mister Plutus, can finger the stuff.
“Besides, I have heard, or my memory’s fail’d,
How greatly last Lott’ry his luck has prevail’d;
The three twenty thousands, he sold (the rum fish!)
Then let us be off, and buy tickets of BISH!”
Derry down.