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THE BROWN JUG. DEAR Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild

ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale,) Was once Toby Philpot, a thirsty old soul, As e’er drank a bottle or fathom'd a bowl, In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease, In his flower-woven arbor as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrows away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. His body when long in the ground it had lain, And Time into clay had received it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale; So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.

THE GOBLET OF FRIENDSHIP. COME, pass round the glass, and let joy for a time

With jollity reign, and enliven our souls; For pleasure's a treasure too rich and sublime

To be exiled so soon from our sparkling bowls; Then raise high your voices, while merriment sings,

For here we're assembled to taste delight; And though Time is preparing to take to his wings,

Let Wit well be sharpened to clip them to-night. If you ask me to toast you, I'll fill to the brim,

I'll ne'er prove a flincher while mirth is the cause, And he that hangs back, this night's lustre to dim,

Is unworthy our free constitution, and laws;

With the juice of the grape I will now fill my cup,

Just to show you how well I can drink and sing; And fie on the man who would scorn now to sup

From one goblet of friendship ere Time takes wing.

HERE's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,

Likewise, to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the bold and extravagant quean,
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty,

Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,
I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Let the toast


&c. Here's to the maiden whose dimples we prize,

Likewise to her that has none, sir,
Here's to the maid with a pair of black eyes,
And here's to her that's but one, sir.

Let the toast pass, &c.
Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,

And to her that's as brown as a berry; Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And here's to the girl that is merry.

Let the toast pass, &c. Let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,

Young or ancient I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, And e'en let us toast them together.

Let the toast pass, &c.

How bright are the joys of the table,

I mean when the cloth is removed;

Our hearts are fast held by a cable,

While round the decanter is shoved, The ladies all rise to retire,

We stand up and look very grave, A bumper, then draw round the fire,

Determined like souls to behave. My servant he knows I'm a toper,

Clean glasses, of wine a recruit, He brings in a six gallon cooper

And places it close at my foot; I gingerly take up a bottle,

The saw-dust I puff from his coat, The cork out it sings in the throttle,

But sweeter than Mars is his note. What gentleman coffee now chooses,

The compliment comes from the fair, No gentleman coffee refuses,

But not a man stirs from his chair. Though Frenchmen may do so, I bear it,

'Tis brutish politeness I think; While Monsieur we pay for his claret,

He never shall teach us to drink. Gay Hebe now shows in Apollo,

A struggler 'twixt claret and wit, For Bacchus insists he shall swallow

Six bumpers before he can sit; Ye fair, why so ill should we treat you,

To part ere the bottle is won, At supper Apollo will meet you,

And show you what Bacchus has done.

FRIEND OF MY SOUL. FRIEND of my soul, this goblet sip,

'Twill chase the pensive tear;

*Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
But, oh! 'tis more sincere,

Like her delusive beam
'Twill steal away thy mind;
But, like affection's dream,

It leaves no sting behind.
Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade,

These flowers were culled at noon;
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But, oh! not half so soon.

But though the flower's decayed,
It's fragrance is not o’er;
But once when love's betrayed,
The heart can bloom no more.

I LOVE to see the flowing bowl

With ruby lustre crown'd;
I love to see the flow of soul,

And care in goblet drown'd;
Oh tell me not ɔf beauty's power,

Of woman's soft control,
But, give me, gods, the social hour,

The transports of the bowl,
The song, the jest, the laugh, the glee,
Compose the charms of life for me.
If wine can yield one's care relief,

Then let its current flow;
If sparkling cup can banish grief,

Then bask we in their glow.
The sand of life too soon runs out,

And joy is but a flower;
Be gay and push the bowl about,
Taste wine, and prove its power.

The song, &c. . PETER AND POULE. OUR vicar still preaches, that Peter and Poule Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl; That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black jack, And the seven deadly sins in a noggin of sack; Yet, whoop, Barnaby, off with thy liquor, Drink, hip! see it out, and a fig for the vicar. Our vicar, he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip; Swears that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye, Yet, whoop for the sack, and kiss Gillian, the quaker, Till she blooms like a rose, and a fig for the vicar. Our vicar thus preaches, and why should he not? For the dues of his cure are his placket and pot; And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch, Who infringe the domains of our good mother church, Yet, whoop, bully boys, and off with your liquor, Sweet Margery's the word! and a fig for the vicar.

Poor Joe, the miller, loved good ale,

And oft would spend his hob, -
His wife, poor soul, would oft times rail,

And swear she'd break his nob;
They'd fight and quarrel_make it up,

Each vow'd they'd look it over,
They'd kiss and sup, and take their cup,
And then to bed in clover.

Tol de rol, &c.
He ne'er would listen to advice,

That his poor wife did give him,
Nor nothing e'er would him suffice,

Like to the joys of drinking;

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