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 areforts”—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.