Whither, O Bacchus, in thy train,[162] Dost thou transport thy votary’s brain With sudden inspiration? Where dost thou bid me quaff my wine, And toast new measures to combine The _Great_ and _Little Nation_? Say, in what tavern I shall raise[163] My mighty voice in Charley’s praise, And dream of future glories, When FOX, with salutary sway (Terror the Order of the Day), Shall reign o’er King and Tories? My mighty feelings must have way![164] A toast I’ll give—a thing I’ll say, As yet unsaid by any,— “OUR SOV’REIGN LORD!”—let those who doubt My honest meaning, hear me out— “HIS MAJESTY—THE MANY!” Plain folks may be surprised, and stare,[165] As much surprised as BOB ADAIR At Russia’s wooden houses; And Russian snows, that lie so thick;[166] And Russian boors[167] that daily kick, With barbarous foot, their spouses. What joy, when drunk, at midnight’s hour,[168] To stroll through Covent Garden’s bow’r, Its various charms exploring; And, ’midst its shrubs and vacant stalls, And proud Piazza’s crumbling walls, Hear trulls and watchmen snoring! Parent of wine, and gin, and beer,[169] The nymphs of Billingsgate you cheer; Naiads robust and hearty; As Brookes’s chairmen fit to wield Their stout oak bludgeons in the field, To aid our virtuous party. Mortals! no common voice you hear;[170] _Militia Colonel, Premier Peer, Lieutenant of a County_! I speak high things! yet, god of wine, For thee, I fear not to resign These gifts of royal bounty. [HORACE. BOOK III., ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS. TRANSLATED BY FRANCIS.