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