Catches, canons and drinking songs
to your rude health,
Song: Say, good master Bacchus, astride on your butt,...
Text:
Say, good master Bacchus, astride on your butt,
since our Champagne’s all gone, and our claret’s run out,
which of all the brisk wines in your empire that grow,
will serve to delight your poor drunkards below?
resolve us, grave Sir, and soon send it over,
lest we die of the sin of being sober.
