A Hymn to Bacchus

I sing thy praise, Iacchus,

Who with thy thyrse dost thwack us:

And yet thou so dost back us

With boldness, that we fear

No Brutus ent'ring here,

Nor Cato the severe.

What though the lictors threat us,

We know they dare not beat us,

So long as thou dost heat us.

When we thy orgies sing,

Each cobbler is a king,

Nor dreads he any thing:

And though he do not rave,

Yet he'll the courage have

To call my Lord Mayor knave;

Besides, too, in a brave,

Although he has no riches,

But walks with dangling breeches

And skirts that want their stitches,

And shows his naked flitches,

Yet he'll be thought or seen

So good as George-a-Green;

And calls his blouze, his queen;

And speaks in language keen.

O Bacchus! let us be

From cares and troubles free;

And thou shalt hear how we

Will chant new hymns to thee.