Bacchanalian songs are a dime a dozen, but few are any good. Here are some of my favorite early ones.

Commodore Gale
Tune - Granny wale. [Granuaile]

Come boys, and before the old vessel unmoors,
Let's toss off a can to the doxies on shore;
'Tis pity to let the good liquor grow stale,
We'll knock round the Wash then, says Commodore Gale.
[Cho:] So mix it, and stir it, says Commodore Gale;
So mix it, and stir it, says Commodore Gale
'Tis pity to let the good liquor grow stale,
We'll knock round the Wash then, says Commodore Gale.

Confusion to watching and trudging the deck,
We can but at worst, have a damnable check;
Sit still then, and let all the officers rail;
We'll ride out the breeze, says Commodore Gale.
So drink and replentish, &c.

The liquor's not theirs, it is very well known,
We bought it, - and so - d--n, 'tis our own;
I'll bowze it about, till I spue like a whale;
Here's to peace, and their downfal, says Commodore Gale.
Drink, and replentish, &c.

If they were ashore, and to tip me their jaw,
My truncheon could soon make them stand in more awe,
I'd thresh 'em as farmers, do corn with a flail,
Till they cried out peccavi*, O Commodore Gale.
I'd thrash 'em and smack 'em, &c.

But thus while he swaggers, and blusters, and roars,
And brags of his bruising, and toasts all his wh--rs,
His noddle and stomach, begin both to fail,--
Here's go and turn in -- says old Commodore Gale.
Let's knock off and sleep, &c.

Then he staggered to bed, and top heavy with bub,
He piss'd in his hammock instead of the tub;
Then dreamt he was swampt, in a boat under sail,
And bale her, hoa! bale her, cries Commodore Gale.
Hoa! scoop her and bale her, &c.

Learn hence when you're drinking, ye bucks of the main,
To ne'er overballast your stomach or brain:
So with this good moral we'll stopper the tale,
And drink reformation to Commodore Gale.
Sing drink remember, &c.

* peccavi, - Latin: I have sinned, or, confession of guilt.

The song "Commodore Gale," which obviously isn't Irish, is from a songbook without music, 'The Charms of Chearfulness', London, 1781.

[The version of the following in DT has been pruned. That following is in several 18th century songbooks, sometimes, as here, with 4 verses of 8 lines, and sometimes as 8 verses of 4 lines.]

The Rakes of Mallow.

Beauing, belling, dancing, singing,
Breaking windows, damning, sinking,
Ever raking, never thinking,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.
Spending faster than it comes,
Beating Bawds and Whores and Duns,
Bacchus' true begotten sons,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.

One time nought but claret drinking,
Then like politicians thinking,
To raise the sinking-fund when sinking,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.
One time flush of money store,
Then as any poet poor,
Kissing Queens, and then a W--re,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.

When at home with dada dying,
Still for Mallow waters crying,
But when there, good claret plying,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.
Living short, but merry lives,
Going where the D---l drives,
Keeping Misses, but no Wives,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.

Racking tenants, stewards teizing,
Swiftly spending, slowly raising,
Wishing to spend all our days, in
Raking thus at Mallow.
Thus to end a raking life,
We grow sober, take a Wife,
Ever after live in strife,
Wish again for Mallow.

The True Englishman. To the tune of Shawnbree, from 'The Humours of London', n.d. (c 1770) [Tune is Sean Buidhe/ Over the Water to Charlie]

Ye Rakehells so jolly, Who hate melancholy
And love a full flask and a doxy;
Who ne'er from love's feats, Like a coward retreats,
Afraid that the harlot should pox you;
While we live till we die, to the Shakespeare let's fly,
When we shall find both in great plenty;
With the juice of the wine, Our senses refine,
And drink till the hogshead is empty.

Here Tompkins, more liquor; Zounds man! bring it quicker;
Champaigne, by all true topers courted;
Without these damn'd tricks, French brandy to mix,
But genuine neat as transported:
While thus cherry merry, Let Harris and Derry
With faces uncommon supply us;
Poll French, and Bet Weemyms, And such batter'd old brims,
Ye pimps, let them never come nigh us.

Now each joyous fellow, while thus we are mellow,
And the fumes of the grape does inspire,
While that's to be had, Let's be damnably mad,
And sling all our wigs in the fire;
Break bottles and and glasses, Bilk landlord and lasses,
What rascal our humour dare hinder?
If any presume to come into the room,
We'll throw the dog out at the window.

Like Quixote of old, As we have been told,
Let's sally in search of adventures;
Mother Dowglass we'll rout, Kick her bullies about,
And knock down the watch if he enters.
Drink and whore all our lives, Lie with other men's wives,
Debauch ev'ry damsel we hit on;
Swear and curse, and tell lies, Our religion despise,
And this is the life of a Briton.

[And now an earlier one. Version in DT - The Card Song. Here is Tom Brown's original.]

Tom Brown's Delight; OR The Good fellows Frolick

Tune of To thee Tom Brown

It was my chance to be
amongst a jovial Crew,
Who merrily did agree,
to make the ground look blue
To thee Tom Brown to thee my jovial Lad,
There's Gallants come to Town,
and money to be had.

Come let this health go round there's none we will accept
For since that we are born,
'tis fit that we be kept.
To thee Tom Brown, &

We will not troubled be,
with things of high concern,
But we will all agree,
this lesson for to learn;
To thee &

Since times a pack of Cards
to pass the time away;
And he that gets the best
so merrily he will play.
To thee Tom Brown.

The King he wins the Queen,
the Queen she wins the Knave,
And since we are good fellows
'tis Money we must have;
To thee Tom Brown

The Ten it wins the Nine
the Nine it wins the Eight,
It is in jovial mirth,
good fellows do delight.
To thee çom Brown &

The Seaven wins the Six,
the Six it wins the Five,
Then let us merry be,
if ever we mean to thrive.
To thee Tom Brown &

The Four it wins the Tray,
the Tray it wins the Duce,
Then let the cup go round,
well fil'd with Barley juice.
To thee Tom Brown

A cup of Nut-brown ale,
with Nut-meggs a toast,
We scorn for to look pale
no more then doth my Host.
To thee Tom Brown.

What need we value Wealth,
since that we have no scant,
Good ale preserves our health,
no doctors do we want.
To thee Tom Brown &

If that out hostess chide,
we'l tell her in her ear,
There is but few beside
such Guests as we be here
To thee Tom Brown &c

We are the true bred boys,
that lives upon our means
We care not for such toys
as painted whores and queans.
To thee Tom Brown &

The merry Bag-pipe we,
have sometimes for delight,
And dance so merrily
from Morning [un]to Night.
To thee Tom Brown &

If that our whores do come,
then homeward we retire
And there take thought for more
to spend when we desire.
To thee Tom Brown &c

Thus we are counted still,
Good fellows of the Town,
And all is for good will,
we bear to thee Tom Brown
To thee Tom Brown &c.

Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clarke. [1674- 1679]

At Oxford, Tom Brown extemporized a well-known translation:

I do not love thee Dr. Fell
And why it is I cannot tell,
But this I know and know full well,
I do not love thee Dr. Fell.

for which see Iona and Peter Opie's 'Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes'.