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, 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.
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 th’ Compass and Square
Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care.