The grace perform'd, each as it suits him best,
Divides the sav'ry honours of the feast,
The glasses with bright sparkling wines abound
And flowing bowls repeat the jolly round.
Thanks said, the multitude unite their voice,
In sweetly mingled and melodious noise.
The warbling musick floats along the air,
And softly winds the mazes of the ear;
Ravish'd the crowd promiscuously retires,
And each pursues the pleasure he admires.

"Behold my muse far distant on the plains,
Amidst a wrestling ring two jolly swains;
Eager for fame, they tug and haul for blood,
One nam'd _Jack Luby_, t' other _Robin Clod_,
Panting they strain, and labouring hard they sweat,
Mix legs, kick shins, tear cloaths, and ply their feet.
Now nimbly trip, now stiffly stand their ground,
And now they twirl, around, around, around;
Till overcome by greater art or strength,
_Jack Luby_ lays along his lubber length.
A fall! a fall! the loud spectators cry,
A fall! a fall! the echoing hills reply.

"O'er yonder field in wild confusion runs,
A clam'rous troop of _Affric's_ sable sons,
Behind the victors shout, with barbarous roar,
The vanquish'd fly with hideous yells before,
The gloomy squadron thro' the valley speeds
Whilst clatt'ring cudgels rattle o'er their heads.