The bacchanalian sessions, or, The contention of liquors with a farewel to wine / by the author of the Search after claret, &c. ; to which is added, a satyrical poem on one who had injur'd his memory, by a friend.

THE Bacchanalian Sessions: OR THE CONTENTION OF LIQUORS.

SInce to drive away cares, or the plague of Dull Thinking, All men more or less give themselves to good Drinking, To refresh their tir'd Senses, and chase away Sorrow, Grief, Pain, and the troublesom thoughts of to morrow: Yet in the choice of the Liquors Disputes have arisen, What to one Palate's grateful, to others is Poison; For one man shall swoon at the sight of good Claret, While another, tho rack't with the Gout, can't forbear it. At the sight of a Punch Bowl will some Men look pale, Yet lay all their Senses a soaking in Ale.

Six Men in a Tavern dispor'd to be merry, Shall drink six sorts of Wine; the first he drinks Sherry; The second to Clares, makes only pretension, And the third treats his Palace with White Wine and Gentian; And pale Rhenish the fourth before all other Wine chuses, And the fifth thinks Good Tent is the best of all Juices; While the sixth Men from all their Opinions does vary, Pleas'd only with mixture of Hock and Canary.

To the Ears of God Bacchus, that Heathen old Toper, The Patron of Drunkards, and Foe to the Sober, The News soon arriv'd, as his Godship was making A Jol••s full Bo••l or some gr•••••• Undertaking. So throwing by Sugar, Toast, Nutmeg and Lemons; Call'd a Council, and presently order'd a Summons, Commanding all Liquors, small, strong, mild and stale, From the Juice of the Grape, up to Adams plain Ale, To repair to the Hal•• of the Vintners ••errestrial, Where his Godship bestriding a Hogshead celestial, Would sit Umpire, and judge in the mighty Convention, And hear every Liquors Complaint and Pretension.

The Summons receiv'd, each and every Liquor, Strove who in Obedience should be the quicker. When strait from Vaults, Stare-houses, Cellars and Arches, Each Liquid in haste to the grand Meeting m••rches, In overgrown Tuns, Pipes, 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Hogsheads and Barrels, Puncheons, Kilderkins, Firkins, Gallons, Quarts, or what e're else Does good moisture contain, rolling through Streets and Allies With a motion like Ships between Dover and Calais.

Till they came to the Court of the Vintners Hall stately, Where all in good order to hear the Debate lye.

By a double Huzzah from the Court of Assistants, (Which as Authors relate, was heard Twenty Miles distance) Timely Notice was given, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, And some other brisk Gods who their Footsteps did follow, Were descended in Shape of some mortal Virorum, To hear the Disputes which were ready before 'em.

But 'fore Tryal began, as our Histories tell us, God Bacchus and all his Celestial Fellows, Took a gentle Carouse at the Head of the But, Their Judgments to clear when the Case should be put.

Proclamation for Silence first made by the Cryer, Who by birth was a German, or Fame is a Lyar, The God (with a Rosie Wreath circling his Forehead) In a short pithy Speech but sententious and florid: Told 'em he for his part, was most heartily sorry, That Mortals so strangely 'bout Liquors should vary, And that his sole Errand, as boldly he would say, Was only to judge of what ev'ry one could say; And by weighing what Arguments each one pretended, Give his Sentence that so all Disputes might be ended.

Upon this a loud Uproar was heard in the Hall, And each for Preheminence loudly did bawl, With such Clamors the Noise you might hear it a Mile hence, But Orders were instantly given for Silence:

When from 〈…〉〈…〉 old Fellow, With a hoarse broken Voice 〈…〉〈…〉 for to tell how, That above all the rest he was Heir to the Crown, As being the Liquor to th' World first was known. For I am, Mighty Sir, without mincing the Matter, The Primitive Liquor the Learned call'd Water, Which the Patriarchs 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and then 'twas not wondred, That some Men attain'd to the Age of Nine Hundred; Whereas now by made Liquors of humane contriving, Men at Forty or Fifty go out from the Living; Or else—Hold your prating (says Bacchus in Fury) I my self in this Case will be hath Judge and Jury; And amaz'd as I am at thy fancy Presumption, With thy Looks pan and man like a generous is Consumption, To contend for the Palm with these generous Juices, What Man in his Wits e're for Pleasure thee chuses? To thy Cistern return, and I charge by strict Rules, That none ever drink thee but Madmen and Fools.

The Court all approv'd what his Godship had utter'd, And Element vanisht, tho he frown'd stampt and mutter'd; When Canary starts up, and in florid Oration, Gave himself very ample and large Commendation: How he cherisht the Blood and enliven'd the Spirits, No other Wines having the half of his Merits; Nay more, that of all the rich Wines in the Hall, His was the most Catholic Grape of them all But Bacchus not pleased with this hussing Bravado▪ With a Frown quickly silenc'd this Rhotomantado,

Tent and Muskadine next gan to open their Throats, And each loudly bawl'd for Major'ty of Votes Nor was Alicant wanting to joyn in the Chorus, And of his great Vertues told many odd Stories, But Bacchus well knowing 'twas not very fit, That a Meal should be made of a Relishing Bit, Quickly told 'em that he in his Judgment did think, Cordials ne're were intended for Man's Common Drink.

The next that stood up with a Countenance merry, Was a pert sort of Wine which the Moderns call Sherry. Who told all the Gods that their Votes he not doubted, Since of late so belov'd scarce a Tavern without it. Hah, says Bacchus, as sure as Discharge of a Pistol, This Dapper young Spark is but knew come from Bristol: And told him his Juice, tho the most Vintners did buy, It was never esteemed as a Liquor to sit by; But assur'd him when e're he to Bristol came down, He'd take care to create him the Mayor of the Town.

Skipping over the heads of Tuns, Hogsheads, and Barrels, (On which there had like to have hapned some Quarrels) A Red Wine appears, and in Language most pretty, Told Bacchus, and all the Assembled Committee, His Vertues (says Bacchus) but pray Sir what are you, I am, Mighty Sirs, a new Wine call'd Red Sherry, Redsherry? quoth Bacchus, and pray Master Sheeps-head Where live you?—Why, Sir, at the Shepherd in Cheapside.

After which the God took off a large brimming Taster, And bid him commend his kind Love to his Master, But told him such precedents never had knowledge, That a Fresh-man was e're chose the head of his Colledge. The Red Wines were next to have spoken in order, But by bawling and yelping they made such Disorder,

That 'twas presently told by the Great God of Wine, They all should give place to the Grape of the Rhine; Upon which, in clean Vessel, not tatter••d and shagrag, Appears Rhenish, Hock, Old and Young, Moselle, and Backrag; But knowing their Interest-grew weaker and weaker, They the great Tun at Heidelburg chose for their Speaker. Being chosen (says he) Mighty Sir, to say truly, Some Palates judicious have own'd or they do lie, No Wines do the Stomach so highly replenish, As a Brimmer of Hock, or a Bumper of Rhenish. If your Godships can then but approve of the Rhine Tiff, Your Verdict we hope you'll give in for the Plaintiff. Brother Guts, then quoth Bacchus, methinks you're too quick Sir, To bespeak our good word for your German Elixar: I'le tell you before the Cause come to an end on't, If we've Ears for the Plaintiff, we've for the Defendant; Besides I must tell you, ye Sons of the Rhine, You'r at best but a kind of Hermophradite Wine; For those who of late have carous'd a good Drench, Do say your part German, part Dutch, and part French. Till then, by the force of Arms powerful and strong, I shall be known to what Prince all your Vineyards belong; To your several Quarters you all may return, And so for this time the Debate we adjourn.

The White Wines were next to the Bar closely pressing, And Trusty Langoon to God Bacchus addressing, Told his Godship what mighty and great Reputation, His Liquor had gained in the English Nation. That of him ev'ry morning each thirsty poor Sinner, Took a Pint for a Whet, to prepare him for Dinner; And therefore it must be a truth very lasting, The Wine must be best which the Mortals drink fasting. In vain then, quoth Bacchus, we make drinking Laws, When you are the Wine which still ruins our Cause. The Whets you pretend I can never think well of, You Whet, but pray what? Don't you whet all the Steel of The Stomack, and then a Man's ready for drinking, As much as a Man in a Storm is for thinking; For he in my Books is the only good Fellow, In the Morning who's sober, in the Evening who's mellow. Therefore Mr. Langoon pray desist from your prating, And talk no more Nonsence in praise of your Whetting: For Ten Mornings Draught Men, and Whetting young Blades, Have for one Evenings Toper gone down to the Shades.

The Red Wines together march decently all, Like a Call of New Serjeants which go by Whitehall In Coats party-colour'd, so these by Extraction, Were half of them Spanish, and half the French Faction. But in this they agreed all, that since the Word Claret, Was so dangerous that Vintners to name scarcely dare it, To be freely content to have Names full as many, As sharping young Bullies, or City Puncks any,

Made use to bilk an old Lodging or manage A Raw Country Cully as yet in his Non-age.

Hah, says Bacchus, these look like true Lads of brisk Mettle, But from whence pray you came all this drove of Red Cattle; Down the Gulph, cross the Alps, or the Mediterranean; For ev'ry one looks like a jolly Companion? We are Mighty Sir, (the reply'd they) poor Strangers, Who passing through infinite Hazards and Dangers Of Pyrates by Sea, and of Robbers by Land, Came to wait on your Highness, and hear your Command; We are call'd Syracuse, Barcelona, Navarre, And what other hard Names our new Masters prepare, But let's be of any kind, species, or sort, We would all be thought Claret, but nam'd the Red Port. Ah, says Bacchus, how e're you pretend all to flatter, I doubt there's some Roguery, at th' bottom o'th' matter; Had you been what you'r not, I protest by this Barrel, To you, and you only, I'de given the Lawrel: For Gods all above, well as Mortals below, Th' Effects of good Claret too sensibly know. For there once was a time, but alas the time's fled, When a Punch Bowl gave place to a Bottle of Red; When no other Name ran throw Jove's Olympic great Hall, But for Claret did Gods and their Goddesses call; But since Civil Wars have in Europe arose, What's become of the Rich Burdeau•• Claret who knows? To our hands came a Letter from mortals judicious, Humbly shewing that Claret was now grown so vicious,

So counterfeit, poor, pall'd, dull, flat, and insipid, That scarcely 'tis fitting for Man to lay Lip at, Unless by strong faith between sleeping and waking, They would drink a damn'd Wine of the Vintners own making; For I'll hear you no more, till it happen that one Day, The Hogshead I stride in fill'd with Burgundy. If such a kind present your Master can raise, 'Tis forty to one I present you the Bays.

The Red Wines went mumbling, and grumbling away, And a jolly full Punch Bowl came next into play, When a hollow voice spoke from the bottom o'th' Bowl, Mighty God of strong Liquors, which cherish the Soul, Since that Wines are so bad as Old Mortals complain, Make me King of good Company once more again, Renew my old Charter and settle my Reign. Yes, my merry Old Friend, said the God, 'tmust be own'd, That thou of all Liquors deserv'st to be Crown'd, But the Mortals for thee who their Reason would Barter, Must now be contented to quit their Old Charter. They who once on thy Liquors did greedily fall on, Must now pine, since good Nants is twelve shillings the Gallon. An Argument which all our Reasons convinces, Thou'rt a Juice only fit now for Gods and for Princes, And Mortals for want of thee must be contented, Till Brandy is Cheaper, or else the Wars ended.

The Punch Bowl no sooner retir'd or did vanish, But with grave sober pace and a look Aldermanish,

Having first made a Rev'rence, to Bar there does come, From Brunswick, a fat swinging Barrel of Mum, And in stile grave and modest to audience in part does, Relate his good Qualifications and Vertues: But Bacchus considering that that kind of Liquor Made twenty Heads dull, for one head it made Quicker; And when Men with that Liquor began to be bowzy, They always inclin'd to be sleepy and drowzy, Refus'd him his praises, and what ever might hap, Thought the Lawrel lookt scurvily over a Night-Cap.

The Mum-cask thus silenc'd, the next that pretended, Were Cyder call'd Redstreak with Perry attended. Hah! hah! hah! quoth God Bacchus what fellows are these? We are, answer'd they, if your Godship it please, The Old Britains Liquors call'd Cyder and Perry, Which chears up the Spirits, and makes the Heart merry; And we once in our Lustre and Glory did shine, Till our Credit was ruin'd by Foreigners Wine. Those villanous Juices—hold, hold, ye Slaves hold, With the Blood of the Grape e're you make but too bold. Cry'd Bacchus in passion, how dare you compare Your balderdash, crabbed, adulterate ware With the Generous Grape, who has Vertues such odds, It can equalize Mortals almost with the Gods? U•••••• ••••y passion no further, but hence get ye skipping, Ye squeezings of Pears and the Juices of Pippin.

No sooner had these slily sneakt out of Court, But Mead and Metheglin strait made their Report.

But Bacchus to make all his Fellow Gods merry, Made 'em perfectly dumb just like Cyder and Perry.

Not Bawds drunk at a Christning, Fish-wives a scolding, Or Rabble the Tricks of a Jugler beholding, Could make half such a Clamour or lowder could bawl, Than the Noise which was suddenly heard in the Hall; Occasioned by crowding, and heaving, and thrusting, Of a hundred Brew'd Liquors with anger half bursting. About the first Place and Precedence, Priority, Each of them pretending an equal Authority, Having first given large Testimonials of Praise To deprive all the rest of the Honor of Bays.

God Bacchus red-hot now with anger was grown, To hear such a Clamor so near to his Throne. By the Stars which adorn my Great Fathers high way, What mean you? whence come you? what are you I say? At which they all open, and each did not fail To cry out, we are Beer, we are Beer, we are Ale. This Clamor his Godship incensed more and more, And by Styx and by Cerberus loudly he swore; That if each of them did not leave off these disorders, For Pluto's black warrant he'd quickly send orders, Then as mute as dumb Fishes, they all ceas'd their bawling, And each in submission low, prostrate and falling, For offending his Godship their sorrow exprest, And the tumult now over in Bacchus his breast, He then order'd that two should declare for the rest.

Then Beer'gan to speak. May't with Reverence be spoke, My self and my brethren most humbly invoke, Your own, and your Fellow Gods kind approbation Of us the best Liquors i' th' English Nation. A Drink much applauded, and thought very good, Not by English alone, but by Nations abroad; For 'tis plain that the French and the Dutch do prefer, Before their Rich Wines, the Bon Beer d' Angleterre; And both Monsieur and Hans will leave Bourdeaux and Rhenish, That their Gats with good Beer they may fully replenish. 'Tis the Staff of the Aged, and Life of the Young; Make Weak men grow vigorous, and Lusty more strong. 'Tis—hold, hold, says Bacchus, no more of your talking, For 'tis—nay it shall be the thing of your making. It shall be what you please, like a Juglers paper, First a Horse, then a Fish, then a Boar, then a Taper: But since Ale and your self in the Cause are concern'd, 'Twere but fit that both Pleadings were rightly discern'd; Therefore speak to the Ale there, your twin Brother muddy, That himself he recover from out his brown study. With a Countenance foggy, Dull Ale does appear, And bowing his Dropsical Corps to the Bar; Says I, come mighty Sir, in the name of the rest, Of my fellow Collegiates to stand to the Test, By what Names or Titles so ever we're known by, Or else by what age or complexion we're shown by; Whether York, Hull, or Lincoln, as Parents we own, Or else brew'd in Darby, and Nottingham ••own:

Whether Scurvy-grass, Daucus, Gill, Butler, or Broom, Or from London, or Southwark, or Lambeth we come; We humbly implore since the Wine in the Nation, Has of late so much lost its once great Reputation; That such Liquor as ours which is genuine and true, And which all our Masters so carefully brew, Which all men approve of, tho 'many drink Wine, Yet the good Oly of Barly there's none will decline: That we as a body call'd corp'rate may stand, And a Patent procure from your Seal and your Hand, That none without Licence, call'd Special, shall fail, To drink any thing else, but Strong Nappy Brown Ale.

At this started Beer, and soon made some Objections, To's Brother, not wanting some sawcy Reflections. But Bacchus by order soon parted the fray, And askt 'em if any thing else they could say; They reply'd that at present they'd utter no more, But humbly his Favor and Grace did implore.

Then ye Sons of thin Element, Barly and Dry Hops. How hapned your Thoughts thus to mount on the high ropes? (Says Bacchus) to fancy I e're should ever afford. You my Favor, who scarcely deserve a good Word; Ye dull, foggy, muddy, flat, spiritless Liquors, Fit only for Plowmen, or dull Country Vicars. Get you gone to your Cellars, to Vaults hence away, If a Crown 'tis you want, 't shall be one made of Clay. For did ever a Poet in writing excel, Who with dull Beer and Ale made his heavy Panch swell?

What Fancy, what Muse, did you ever inspite, You are Sons of the Earth, not the Offspring of Fire. When Statesmen have held a Committee, or Council, Durst either of you but tread over the Groundsel Good Wine has been suffre'd bear the Debate; Which without it had been unactive and flat. But why on such vermin my breath do I spend, Who dare with the Juice of the Grape to contend▪ When Carmen and Porters are Judges of sence, Perhaps I may bear you, till when get you hence▪

At command, the last Liquors in Droves went away, And none but Cock Ale did behind the rest stay: The Court at his impudence gun for to scoff, And askt why he staid, when the rest were troopt off? The I am not so vain to pretend to the Bans, (Answer'd he) yet I will not be robb'd of my praise. For 'tis but a truth, which is very well known, How much I'm belov'd by the Sparks of the Town, And their Mistresses too, who 'fore Wine me prefer, When they meet at a Hoarse very near Temple ban What precious intre••gues could 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Pimpship discover, Between a Town Jilt, and a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 young Lover. But mum—you may call me a saw••y young Prig, If I can't have the Bays, I'll at least have a Sprig, Then Bacchus confidering 'twould be very ••ard, If Boldness like his should not meet with reward Fearing impudence would 〈◊〉〈◊〉 last bring hi•• to th' Gallows, Made him Page of the Back Stairs to his drunken Palace.

Small Beer whilst the others so loudly did bawl, Went sneaking and santring all over the Hall; And to speak for his goodness was very unwilling, Since the Cloths on his back were but all worth Six Shilling. Tho he took it in dudgeon, and thought it was hard, To be pinch'd and abus'd by th' Yeomen o' th' Guard. Which so often was done that a Quarrel arose, And Bacchus himself did i' th' fray interpose. But how angry he was when his Godship did hear, That the Quarrel was only 'bout paltry Small Beer, So before for himself he could make his report, He was threatned a Pumping, and kickt out of Court.

Then the Coffee-house Liquors began for to swarm, And came up to Bar, some cold, and some warm. Says Bacchus, how happen'd it that in these doors, Came this Crew of half sober, half drunk Sons of Whores? But since they are here let 'em make their report, For perhaps it may give some diversion to th' Court.

Then touching his Turbant by way of Respect, Stood up Coffee, and spoke to this kind of effect; That when men overheated by Wine and Debauches Had gotten their Loads, and were drunker than Roaches, By his pow'r they their sence would recover again, And no longer be Brutes, but approve themselves Men. Why then Mr. Coffee, in true sober sadness, Says Bacchus, you think that all drinking is madness;

But I know and am sure, when men part with their Reason, Tho Nonsence they talk, yet they never think Treason; But in drinking of thee, Men too oft frame a Plot, Which costs them their Necks—so be silent you Sot.

The next that attempted to put in his Plea, Was a Drink much admir'd by the Ladies, call'd Tea. But the Court plainly saw how he trifled and fool'd, So without much debate was his Plea over-rul'd.

Then up to the Bar with a Countenance bold, Came another Tea Liquor by Moderns call'd Cold, But Bacchus soon found by acquaintance with Spirits, He lately had lost very much of his merits. For a Man would soon find should he walk the Town round, Good Brandy, like Honesty, hard to be found.

Then the Ladies and Sparks admir'd Drink Chocolate, In words very modish began a short prate. How he cherisht the Spirits, and tickled the Blood, And to make the Back strong was undoubtedly good. Hah! says Bacchus, what Pimp of a Liquor is this? With the Cherish and Tickle you may if you please, Be to Streets of St. Albans, and Bridget be jogging, For if longer you stay have a care of a flogging. He is only my Fav'rite, and true Bully Rock, When he hugs a Half Flask, crys a Fig for the Smock,

Rosa Solis spoke next, but he quickly gave o're, By Bacchus struck dumb for a Son of a Whore.

All Liquors by accident pimp and perswade, But he and some others were Pimps by their Trade.

Whue by Chreesht my Dear Joy, by Shaint Patrick my Shoul, Usqueb••••gh then set up with an Irish Howl. Pridee Bacchush, if that be thy own Chreeshen Name, For thou hast a Swheet fauce, and I poor Teague came To make a Petishion upon thy sweet Grash, That 'mongst other Liquors I may ha a Plaush: This silly Expression made all the Court smile, Thou hast it (says Bacchus) and this is thy Stile: Thou'rt the Aetna of Juices, a Damn'd Liquid fire, Hence, Teaguelander, hence, now thou hast thy desire.

The Court now began to appear very thin, And nothing like Liquor about it was seen, But two or three Vessels who speechless did crawl, And at last, like cast Clients, crept out of the Hall.

Now all things were silent, The God started up, And taking of Nectar Celestial a Cup, To his Fellow Gods drank, and concluded the Session, With this pithy short Speech, and ingenuous Confession.

You see Brother Deities, what a Contention, There is amongst Liquors of humane Invention; That 'tis vain should I strive for to end the Contest, Or nicely determine which Liquor is best. Let each Mortal his skinful most soberly drink Of the Liquor he likes, or what best he does think;

But yet let him always 〈…〉〈…〉 To fill what he drinks, and to drink what he fill••.

The Deities all, by a treble Haz••••••, Approv'd of the verdict that Bacchus did say, And in Chariot of Clouds they th••n vanisht away.