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.