Let then no Misfortune e'er make thee dull, But drink away care in a Jug, a Jug; Then let not thy Tide steal away, but pull, Carouse away though in a Mug, a Mug: While others for Greatness and Fortune's doom, While they for their Ambition tug; We'll sit close and snug in a Sea-coal Room, And banish Despair in a Mug, a Mug.

Let Zealots o'er Coffee new Plots devise, And lace with fresh Treason the Pagan Drug; Whilst our Loyal Blood flows our Veins shall shine, Like our Faces inspir'd with a Mug, a Mug: Let Sectaries dream of Alarms, Alarms, And Fools still for new changes tug; While fam'd for our Loyalty we'll stand to our Arms, And drink the King's Health in a Mug, a Mug.

Come then to the Queen let the next Advance, And all Loyal Lads of true _English_ Race; Who hate the stum Poison of _Spain_ and _France_, Or to _Bourdeux_ or _Burgundy_ do give place; The Flask and the Bottle breeds Ach and Gout, Whilst we, we all the Season lie snug; Neither _Spaniard_ nor _Flemming_, can vie with our Stout, And shall submit to the Mug, the Mug.

_The Good Fellow. Words by Mr._ Alex. Brome.

[Music]

Stay, stay, shut the Gates, T'other Quart, faith, it is not so late As you're thinking, Those Stars which you see, In this Hemisphere be, But the Studs in your Cheeks by your Drinking: The Sun is gone to Tiple all Night in the Sea Boys, To Morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we Boys, Drink Wine, give him Water, 'tis Sack makes us jee Boys.

Fill, fill up the Gla.s.s, To the next merry Lad let it pa.s.s, Come away with't: Come Set Foot to Foot, And but give our Minds to't, 'Tis Heretical Six that doth slay Wit, No Helicon like to the Juice of the Vine is, For _Phoebus_ had never had Wit, nor Diviness, Had his Face been bow dy'd as thine, his, and mine is.

Drink, drink off your Bowls, We'll enrich both our Heads and our Souls With Canary; A Carbuncled Face, Saves a tedious Race, For the _Indies_ about us we carry: Then hang up good Faces, we'll drink till our Noses Give freedom to speak what our Fancy disposes, Beneath whose protection is under the Roses.

This, this must go round, Off your Hats, till that the Pavement be Crown'd With your Beavers; A Red-coated Face, Frights a Searjeant at Mace, And the Constable trembles to shivers: In state march our Faces like those of the _Quorum_, When the Wenches fall down and the Vulgar adore'em, And our Noses, like Link-boys, run shining before'em.

_The Nymphs Holiday. The Tune of the Nightingale._

[Music]

Upon a Holiday, when Nymphs had leave to play, I walk'd unseen, on a pleasant Green, Where I heard a Maid in an angry Spleen, Complaining to a Swain, to leave his drudging Pain, And sport with her upon the Plain; But he the silly Clown, Regardless of her Moan, did leave her all alone, Still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny Lad come away, I cannot come, I will not come, I cannot come, my Work's not done, Was all the Words this Clown did say.

She vex'd in her Mind to hear this Lad's reply, To _Venus_ she went, in great Discontent, To desire her Boy with his Bow ready bent, To take a nimble Dart, and strike him to the Heart, For disobeying her Commandment: _Cupid_ then gave the Swain such a Bang, As made him to gang with this bonny La.s.s along, Still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny Lad, come hither, I come, I come, I come, I come, I come, I come, So they gang'd along together.

_Good Honest Trooper take warning by_ DONALD COOPER. _To the Tune of_ Daniel Cooper.

[Music]

A Bonny Lad came to the Court, His Name was _Donald Cooper_, And he Pet.i.tion'd to the King, That he might be a Trooper: He said that he, By Land and Sea, Had fought to Admiration, And with _Montross_ Had many blows, Both for his King and Nation.

The King did his Pet.i.tion grant, And said he lik'd him dearly, Which gave to _Donald_ more content, Than Twenty Shillings yearly: This wily Leard Rode in the Guard, And lov'd a strong Beer Barrel; Yet stout enough, To Fight and Cuff, But was not given to Quarrel.

Till on a _Sat.u.r.day_ at Night, He walked in the Park, Sir; And there he kenn'd a well fair La.s.s, When it was almost dark, Sir; Poor _Donald_ he Drew near to see, And kist her bonny Mow, Sir; He laid her flat Upon her back, And bang'd her side Weam too, Sir.

He took her by the Lilly white Hand, And kiss'd his bonny _Mary_, Then they did to the Tavern go, Where they did drink Canary; When he was Drunk, In came a Punck, And ask'd gan he would Mow her; Then he again, With Might and Main, Did bravely lay her o'er, Sir.

Poor _Donald_ he rose up again, As nothing did him ail, Sir; But little kenn'd this bonny La.s.s, Had Fire about her Tail, Sir: When Night was spent Then Home he went, And told it with a Hark, Sir; How he did Kiss A dainty Miss, And lifted up the Sark, Sir.

But e'er a Month had gone about, Poor _Donald_ walked sadly: And every yean enquir'd of him, What gar'd him leuk so badly: A Wench, quoth he, Gave Snuff to me, Out of her Placket box, Sir; And I am sure, She prov'd a Wh.o.r.e, And given to me the Pox, Sir.

Poor _Donald_ he being almost Dead, Was turn'd out of the Guard, Sir; And never could get in again, Although he was a Leard, Sir: When _Mars_ doth meet, With _Venus_ sweet, And struggles to surrender; The Triumph's lost, Then never trust A Feminine Commander.

Poor _Donald_ he went home again, Because he lost his Place, Sir; For playing of a Game at Whisk, And turning up an Ace, Sir; Ye Soldiers all, Both great and small, A Foot-man or a Trooper; When you behold, A Wench that's bold Remember _Donald Cooper_.

_The Jovial Drinker._

[Music]

A Pox on those Fools, who exclaim against Wine, And fly the dear sweets that the Bottle doth bring; It heightens the Fancy, the Wit does refine, And he that was first Drunk was made the first King.

By the help of good Claret old Age becomes Youth, And sick Men still find this the only Physitian; Drink largely, you'll know by experience, the Truth, That he that drinks most is the best Politician.

To Victory this leads on the brave Cavalier, And makes all the Terrors of War, but Delight; This flushes his Courage, and beats off base Fear, 'Twas that taught _Caesar_ and _Pompey_ to fight.

This supports all our Friends, and knocks down our Foes, This makes us all Loyal Men from Courtier to Clown; Like _Dutchmen_ from Brandy, from this our Strength grows So 'tis Wine, n.o.ble Wine, that's a Friend to the Crown.

_The s.e.xton's_ SONG.

_Sung by_ BEN. JOHNSON, _in the Play of_ Hamlet _Prince of_ Denmark, _acting the_ _Grave maker._

[Music]

Once more to these Arms my lov'd Pick-ax and Spade, With the rest of the Tools that belong to my Trade; I that Buried others am rose from the Dead, _With a Ring, a Ring, Ring, a Ring, and Dig a Dig, Dig._

My Thoughts are grown easie, my Mind is at rest, Since Things at the worst are now grown to the best, And I and the Worms that long fasted shall Feast, _With a Ring_, &c.

How I long to be Measuring and cleaving the Ground, And commending the Soil for the Sculls shall be found, Whose thickness alone, not the Soil makes them sound, _With a Ring_, &c.

Look you Masters, I'll cry, may the Saints ne'er me save, If this ben't as well contriv'd sort of a Grave, As a Man could wish on such occasion to have, _With a Ring_, &c.

Observe but the make of't, I'll by you be try'd, And the Coffin so fresh there that lies on that side, It's Fifty Years since he that owns it has dy'd.

_With a Ring_, &c.

I hope to remember your Friend in a Bowl, An honest good Gentleman, G.o.d rest his Soul, He has that for a Ducket is worth a Pistole, _With a Ring_, &c.

At Marriages next I'll affirm it and swear, If the Bride would be private so great was my Care, That not a Soul knew that the Priest joyn'd the Pair, _With a Ring_, &c.

When I myself whisper'd and told it about What Door they'd go in at, what Door they'd go out, To receive the Salutes of the Rabble and Rout, _With a Ring_, &c.