To J. W. On His Birth Day. A Dialogue Between Seventy Two And Twenty Seven Poem by Hector Macneill

Another year to banish gloom,
And still my friend retains his bloom!
Still laughs and jokes, and tells his tale;
Eats heartily : drinks homebrew'd ale;
Though sometimes tortur'd with the gout

W. The gout! young man! come! come, refrain!
You know, Macneil, 'tis but a sprain ;
A random step - a heedless tread
You smile, I see, and shake your head
Well! be it so - with all my heart
You know the truth - I know the smart!

M. Be thankful, sir! in life's dull round
Few W---s are to be found:
Oppress'd with want, perplex'd with care,
Diseas'd, or madd'ning with despair,
The poor or wealthy rarely find
Sound health conjoin'd with tranquil mind.

Now these, you know, have blest you long,
But yet, my friend! you're not still young;
And 'twixt us two, you were truths all told,
You think the gout sounds plaguy old
Arriv'd at years full threescore ten

W. Who told you that! - M. Why, there again
The sound is old - pox on this tongue!
I wish to God you still were young!
If I am wrong I cry you mercy;
My proofs, I own, are only - hearsay
But tell the truth and I'll engage, sir ;

W. - I'm not oblig'd to tell my age, sir

M. Well! be it seventy, more or less,
I say your lot is happiness.
True, once a year that stomach sprain
A month or longer gives you pain.
The fault's you own; I can assure you
In half the time a child might cure you.

W. Dear Mac! the means? M. Why then I'll tell ye
Stay more at home, please less the belly.
Mark now, my friend, and then complain,
Pray what is e'en a month of pain?
Unknown to fever, gout, or stone,
The passing year glides smoothly on;
And while life frets and discomposes
Hear how you spread your bed of roses.

Esteem'd by all, by some ador'd,
You often grace your neighbour's board;
They give whate'er you prize best,
Old wine - old joke - old ale - old jest,
Yet mix a charm that all surpasses!

W. What's that you rogue? M. Young bonny lasses.

Some hours in social converse blest,
What say you to a game at whist?
Agreed - cut in - you get the worst,
I'll not aver he will be curst,
But for his shuffling, cuts, and dealings,
I would not own them for - some shillings.

At supper next I see you sit
Replete with glee and social wit;
With some fair nymph you laugh and sport,
Your feast an egg; your liquor port.
Tim'rous and sad now flutt'ring fly!
'Tis strains like these thou now must try!
Yes, wretched thing! go - vent thy moan,
Thy friend! - thy earthly guide - is gone!