raw the fcene for wit and pleasure ¿ Enter jollity and joy ;

e for thinking have no leifure, Manly mirth is our employ: ce in life there's nothing certain, We'll the prefent hour engage; d when death fhall drop the curtain, With applause we'll quit the ftage.

40

YS Plato, Why fhould man be vain, ince bounteous heaven hath made him great? y looketh he with infolent difdain In thofe undeck'd with wealth or state? coftly robes, or beds of down,

r all the gems that deck the fair; all the glories of a crown

ive health, or ease the brow of care? fcepter'd king, the burden'd slave. 'ne humble and the haughty die; rich, the poor, the base, the brave, duft, without diftinction lie. fearch the tombs where monarchs reft, ho once the greatest titles bore; ir wealth and glory are bereft, nd all their honour is no more.. ies the meteor through the skies, nd spreads along a gilded train; en fhot, 'tis gone, it's beauty dies, iffolves to common air again, is with us, my jovial fouls, et friendship reign while here we ftay; crown our joy with flowing bowls, ́r when Jove calls we must obey.

་ ཨ་

bright Phoebus, how he shines! ne fpot his beam confines; nd the world his courfers flee, King dear Variety.

Be the wretch with gold poffeft;
Let the fot with wine be bleft;
Laurell'd let ambition be,
Give me dear variety,

Would you lafting pleasures tafte,"
Such as ne'er can cloy nor wafte;
From folly, care, and difcord, free;
Seek them in variety.

All ye powers of joy and mirth,
Bring your choiceft treasures forth;
Mufic, fong, and dance, and glee,
Blended with variety.

But when love demands the theme,
Then I quite avert my scheme;
Nancy's heart's enough for me,
Tho' my name's variety.

Tho' fmall the power which fortune grants,

And few the gifts she sends us;

The lordly hire'ing often wants

That freedom that defends us,

By law fecured from lawless ftrife,
Our houfe is our caftellum.
Thus blefs'd with all that's dear in life,
For lucre, fhall we fell 'em?
Noev'ry Briton's fong fhould be,

Or give me death or liberty.

44

WE'LL drink, and we'll never have done boys,
Put the glass then around with the fun, boys;
Let Apollo's example invite us,

For he's drunk ev'ry night,
That makes him fo bright,
That he's able next morning to light us.
Drinking's a Christian diverfion,
Unknown to the Turk and the Perfian;
Let Mahometan fools

Live by heathenish rules,

And dream o'er their tea-pots and coffee;
While the brave Britons fing,
And drink health to the king,
And a fig for their fultan and fophy.

4.5

YE mortals whom trouble and forrow attend,
Whofe life is a féries of pain without end,
For ever depriv'd of hope's all-chearing tay,
Ne'er know what it is to be happy a day 3
Obey the glad fummons, the bar bell invites,
Drink deep, and I warrant it fets you to rights.
When poverty enters, an unwelcome guest,
By heart-hearted duns too continually prest,
When brats begin crying and fquilling for bread,
And wife's never filent till faft in her bed;

Obey the glad fummons, &c.

Did Neptune's falt element run with fresh wine, Tho' all Europe's powers together combine, Our brave British fai ors need ne'er care a jot, Surrounded by plenty of fuch rare grape-hot Obey the glad fummons, &

Was each dull, pedantical, text-spinning vicar,
To leave off dry preaching, and ftick to his lige,
O how would he wish for that power divine,
To change, when he would, fimple water to win!
Obey the glad fummons, &c.

г

If wine, then, can miracles work, fuch as the, And give to the troubl'd mind comfort and ease, Defpair not, that bleffing in Bacchus you'll ñal, Who fhowers his gifts for the good of mankind Obey the glad fummons, the bar be!l invites; Dank deep, and I warrant it fets you to rights, 46

THERE
was once, it is faid,
When, 'tis out of my head ;-
Aye, and where too—yet true is my
talej
That a round-belly'd Vicar
Bedimpled with liquor,

Could stick to no text like good ale.
Tel de rel, &t.

He one night 'gan to dose,

For, under the rofe,

The prieff was that night non fe ipfe
Non fe ipfe, you'll say,

What is that to the lay ?-
Io plin English then, parfon was cipfeyi
When the clerk coming in, ́

With his band-bobbing chin,
As folemn and thivling as may be,
The vicar he gap'd,

His clerk hem'd and fcrap'd,
Saying,-pleafe, fir, to bury a baby.
Now our author fuppafes
The clerk's name was Mofes,
Who look'd at his mafter fo rofy;
He blink'd with one eyea
And with wig all awry,

He hiccup'd out, how cheers it, Mazy!

Lord, fir, fays the clerk, You are all in the dark, Tis a child to be bury'd, not you, Well, Mofes, don't hurry,❤❤ The infant we'll bury ;But, mafter, the corpfe cannot fay : What can't it but why? For once then we'll try fa corple, Mofes, can run away. But Mofes reply'd,

The parish will chide,

or keeping them out in cold weather:
Then, Maxy, quoth he,'
Pray tell 'em from me,

'll bury them warm, all together.
But, fir, it rains hard,
Pray have fome regard ;-
Regard, Mofes, that makes me flay!
For no corpfe, young or old,
In the rain can catch cold,
But, Mofes, faith you or I may.

Moles begg'd to be gone,'
Saying, fir, the rain's done;
Pleafe to rife, and I'll lend you my hand;
'Tis hard, quoth the vicar,
To leave thus my liquor,

And go, when I'm Lure I can't stand.

At length, though fore troubled,
To church-yard he hobbled
Lamenting the length of the way;
For, Mofes, quoth he,
Were i bishop, d'ye fee,

neither need walk, preach, nor pray,

When he came to the grave,
Says he Mafes,astave
Lord, where's my tobacco box hid
I proteft this faft walking
Prevents me from talking; ab
§o, Moses, pray give me a quid,

Then he open'd his bock,
And therein feem'd to look,

Whilft o'er the page only he quinted;
Crying, Mofes, I'm vex'd,
For I can't fee the text,

The book is fo damnably printed.

Woman of a man born

No-that's wrong-the leaf's torn ;-
Upon woman the natural fwell is;
Ware men got with child

The world would run wild,

You and I, Mofes might have big bellies.
Our guts would be prefs'd hard
Were we got with baftard;
How wonderful are our fuppofes;-
What midwife could do it?
He'd be hardly put to it,

Lord bless us, to lay me and Mofes

So, Mafes, come forth,
Put the child into earth,
And dust to dust, duft it away
For, Mofes, I arust,

We should foon turn to dut
If we were not to moisten our clay.
Mofes mind what I fay ;---
When 'tis night is not day ;-

Now in former times faints could work miracles,
And raise from the dead,-

There's no more to be faid,

For, Mofes, I've dropp'd down my fpectacles, shear what I fay,

alas! but a day,

Nay, fometimes tis over at noon ;-
Man is out a flower,

Cut down in an hour,

Pris ftrong ale, Mofes, does it fo foon.

So one pot, and then ;-
Mofes answered, amen! →

And thus far we've carry'd the farce on; 'Tis the vice of the times

To relish thofe rhymes

Where the ridicule runs on a parfon,

Το

47

1

Tol de rol, &c.

CONTENTED I am, and contented I'll be,
For what can this world more afford,
Than a girl that will fociably fit on your knee,
And a cellar that's plentiful ftor'd,
My brave boys.

My vault-door is open, "defcend ev'ry guest,

Broach that cafk; aye, that wine we will try, 'Tis as fweet as the lips of your love to the taste, And as bright as her cheek to the eye.

In a piece of flit hoop I my candle have ftuck,
Twill light us each bottle to hand ;'
And the foot of my glass for the purpose I broke,
For I hate that a bumper should stand.

We are dry where we fit, tho' the oozy drops feem
The moist walls with wet pearls to embofs,
From the arch mouldy cobwebs in Gothic tafte ftream,
Like ftucco work cut of mofs.

Aftride on a butt, as a butt fhould be ftrod,
I fit my companions among,

Like grape-bleffing Bacchus, the good fellow's god,
And a fentiment give, or a fong.

I charge spoil in hand, and my empire maintain,
No antient more patriot-like bled;
Each drop in defence of delight I will drain,

And myself for my bucks I'll drink dead.
Sound that pipe, 'tis in tune, and those bins are well

View that heap of old Hock in the rear;[ fill'd, Yon' bottles of Burgundy, fee how they are pil'd, Like artillery, tier over tier.

My cellar's my camp, and my foldiers my flafks,
All glorioufly rang'd in review;
When I caft my eyes round I confider my casks
As kingdoms I've yet to fubdue.

Like Macedon's madman my glass I'll enjoy,
Defying hyp, gravel, or gout;

He cry'd when he had no more worlds to destroy,
I'll weep when my liquor is out.

On their ftumps fome have fought & as ftoutly will I, When reeling, I roll on the floor;

Then my legs must be loft, so I'll drink as I lie,
And dare the best buck, to do more.

Tis my will when I die, not a tear shall be sheď,
No hic jacet be cut on my ftone;
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red,
And fay that his drinking is done,

My brave boys,

48
WHEN Britain firft at heav'n's command

Arofe from out the azure main,
Arofe from out, &c. ́*

This was the charter, the charter of the land,
And guardian angels fung the ftrain :

Rule Britannia; Britannia, rule the waves,
For Britons never will be slaves.
The nations, not fo bleft as thee,

Muft in their turns to tyrants fall,
Muft in, &c.

Whilft thou shalt flourish, shalt flourish great & fret,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule, Britannia, &c,

Still more majestic shalt thou rife,

More dreadful from each foreign ftroke,
More dread ful, &c.

As the loud blaft that tears, that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.

Rule Britannia, &c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;

All their attempts to bend thee down,
All their, &c.

Will but aroufe, arqufe thy gen'rous flame,
And work their woe, and thy renown,
Rule, Britannia, &.

To

Chorus Rifing winds. main,

SH

W

le Grasse indignant plows the foaming mai
And fullen fhuns in combat the dreaded foe to meet
Tho' troops of generous herces croud his train,
And tho' out-numb'ring cannon arm his fleet!
Tow ev'ry gallant mind to victory does afpire;
The bloody fight's begun he

And fate's dark brow portender is all on fired
gleams!

While a flood all of blood,
Thro' the dazzling Ville de Paris ftreams."
Cho. While a flood, &c.

Sulphur, fmoke, and fire difturbing the air,
Their thunder hoarfe refounding from ocean's wa-
Proud Gallia's fhrinking genius hovers near[try cave,
And drops her faded lilies on the wave!

The nymphs & fea gods mourn their hapless ftate! Proud Ville de Paris! now, thy lot fuperior know! In bright Britannia's line thy burnith'd fides hall Enough thou mighty god of war! Now we fing, blefs the king,

Here's a health to every British Tar,

94 worin ChatNow we fing, &c. WHen mighty roaft beef was the Englishman's food

It ennobled our veins, and enriched our blood,
Our foldiers were brave and our courtiers were good;
Q the roaft beef of old England!!!
And O the old English toalt beef CA
But fince we have learnt from all-conq'ring France,
To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance,
We're fed up with nothing but vain complaifance;
O the roast beef, &c. di GHAT
Our fathers of old were robuft, ftout, and strong,
And kept open houfe with good cheer all day long,
Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this long
O the roaft beef, &c. Am.

But now we are dwindled to what shall I name?
A fneaking poor vace, half begotten, and tame;
Who fully thofe honours that once thone in fame;
O the roaft beef, &c.gi

When good queen Elizabeth fat on the throne, Ere coffee, or tea, or fuch flip-flops were known, The world was in terror if e'er the did frown;

S

O the roast beef,a&ic. fined pare Bun our In those days, if fleets did prefume on the main, As witnefs, the vaunting Armada of Spain: They feldom or never returned back again; O the roaft beef, &c.

'Ol then