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.

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.