Let some the joys of Bacchus praise,
The vast delights which he conveys,
And pride them in their wine;
Let others choose the nice _morceau_,
The piquant joys of feasting know,
But other gifts are mine.
Give me, ye gods, my quantum suff.
Of Grimstone's or Gillespie's snuff--
These are the sorts I crave;
Defend me from the Lundyfoot,
'Tis to my nostrils worse than soot,
And from the Irish save.
Your Prince's Mixture I despise,
It clogs the head and dims the eyes--
The nose rejects such burden;
Sure 'tis the critic's vast delight,
So dull and stupidly they write,
I call for witness ----.
Oh! where shall I for courage fly?
Or what restorative apply?
A pinch be my resource;
Perchance the French are not polite,
And with my country wish to fight,
Then I must grieve perforce;
Or, if with doubt the bosom heaves.
The heart for Grecian sorrows grieves,
And pines to see them fail.
Such critics sometimes court the muse,
And I perchance the rhymes peruse,
Then heaves the breast with pain.
To soothe the mind in such an hour,
A pinch of snuff has ample power--
One pinch--all's well again.
A pinch of snuff delights again,
And makes me view with great disdain,
And soothes my patriot grief.
Thus for the list of human woes,
The pangs each mortal bosom knows,
I find in snuff relief:
It makes me feel less sense of sorrow,
When modern bards their verses borrow,
And soothes my patriot grief.
Then let me sing the praise of snuff--
Give me, ye gods, I pray, enough--
Let others boast their wine;
Let some prefer the nice _morceau_
And piquant joys of feasting know,
The bliss of snuff be mine.
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