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.