And trufty Glenriddel, fo fkill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue fmooth as oil, Defiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; Or elfe he would mufter the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man. ፡፡ By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, "Before I furrender fo glorious a prize, "I'll conjure the ghoft of the great Rorie "More*, "And bumper his horn with him twenty times "o'er," * See Johnson's tour to the Hebrides. Sir Robert, a foldier, no fpeech would pre tend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend, Said, tofs down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes re pair, So noted for drowning of forrow and care; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the fenfe, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was felected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A A bard who detefted all fadness and fpleen, And wish'd that Parnaffus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred fo fet, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witnefs'd fo joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And fwore 'twas the way that their anceftor did, Then worthy Glenriddel, fo cautious and fage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; A high ruling elder to wallow in wine! He left the foul bufinefs to folks lefs di vine. The The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with Fate and Quart Bumpers contend? Though Fate faid, a hero fhould perish in light; So uprofe bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight. Next uprofe our Bard, like a prophet in drink : "Craigdarroch, thou'lt foar when creation "fhall fink! "But if thou would flourish immortal in "rhyme, "Come-one bottle more-and have at the "fublime! 66 Thy |