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.4
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.8
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.12
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.16
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.20
“Life’s cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid downBy 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.24