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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?