song—“no churchman am i”

    tune—“prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly.”

    no churchman am i for to rail and to write,

    no statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,

    no sly man of business contriving a snare,

    for a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.

    the peer i don't envy, i give him his bow;

    i scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;

    but a club of good fellows, like those that are here,

    and a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

    here passes the squire on his brother—his horse;

    there centum per centum, the cit with his purse;

    but see you the crown how it waves in the air?

    there a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.

    the wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;

    for sweet consolation to church i did fly;

    i found that old solomon proved it fair,

    that a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

    i once was persuaded a venture to make;

    a letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;

    but the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,

    with a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

    “life's cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down

    by the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;

    and faith i agree with th' old prig to a hair,

    for a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.