Song—“No Churchman Am I”
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une—“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 downBy 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. A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow,And honours masonic prepare for to throw;May ev’ry true Brother of the Compass and SquareHave a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care.
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