NO CHURCHMAN AM I
[_]
Tune: Prepare, my dear Brethren
I
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.
II
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
III
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.
IV
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon provèd it fair,
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.
V
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddlèd up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
VI
‘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.
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 Square
Have a big-belly'd bottle, when harass'd with care!
