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10. Fredman’s Epistle No. 82. At the luncheon of Ulla Winblad. By C. M. Bellman. Rest by this limpid well-spring! Our little luncheon we’re preparing, Claret with pimpernel in, And then the snipe our recent game. Hark, Ulla! bottles tinkle, Come let us empty ev’ry single, Then let on grass them trundle And smell the odour fine of them. Your dinner-wine We will pour out fast drinking, We won’t decline. Rest by this limpid well-spring, Hear bugle’s sound, dear cousin mine!

11. Fredman’s Song No. 16. By C. M. Bellman.

I was born and I will live And feel well at any price, As did Adam and his Eve in the Paradise. Roasted sparrows might I often taste Drinking nectar, sweetly sleeping on a rose's bed Fondle her, my heartie does prefer, Singing ballads, dancing polka, tumble here and there. With my bottle might I slumber, With my girlie waken up; When my brain begins to blunder, Pleasure makes a stop. Thus my days are disappearing Merrily, though troubles pain; Venus Thou art we endearing, Bacchus does me train. Should any one me a swiller call, Damn himl he should never, never take a cup at all! If fair Chloris I should never touch, Damn it, thousand times! we then would sip and drink as much. Come, my comrades, let us sing out, Drinking punch now at a vie, till the dismal death’s last dim cloud Darkens 'fore our eye.