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.