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?