Song—“No Churchman Am I”
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.