SONG.

HE wealthy fool with gold in store

ΤΗ

Will still defire to grow richer;

Give me but thefe, I afk no more,

My charming girl, my friend, and pitcher.

CHORUS.

My friend so rare, my girl so fair,

With thefe what mortal can be richer;

Give me but thefe, a fig for care,

With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher.

II.

From morning fun I'd never grieve

To toil a hedger or a ditcher,

If that when I come home at eve

I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.

My friend fo rare, &c. &c.

III.

Tho' Fortune ever fhuns my door,

I know not what 'tis can bewitch her;

With all my heart can I be poor—

With my fweet girl, my friend, and pitcher.

My friend fo rare, &c. &c.

SONG.

THE BROWN

JU G.

DEAR

EAR Tom, this brown jug, which now foams with mild ale,

Out of which I now drink to fweet Kate of the Vale,.. 'Twas once TOBY FILPOT, a thirsty old foul

As e'er crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl:
In boozing about 'twas his pride to excel,
And amongst jolly topers he bore off the bell,

II.

It chanc'd as in dog-days he fat at his case
In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, quaffing forrow away,
And with honeft old ftingo was foaking his clay;
His breath-doors of life on a fudden were fhut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester Butt.

III.

His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had refolv'd it again,

A potter found out in its covert so snug,

And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug, Now facred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale

So here's to my lovely fweet Kate of the Vale.

K

SONG

IN PRAISE OF ALE.

WHILST fome in epic strains delight,

Whilst others pastorals invite

As taste or whim prevail; Affift me all ye tuneful Nine ! Support me in the great defign, To fing of nappy ale.

II.

Some folks of cyder make a rout,
And cyder's well enough, no doubt,
When better liquors fail;

But wine, that's richer, better still-
E'en wine itself (deny't who will)
Must yield to nappy ale.

III.

Rum, brandy, gin with choiceft fmack
From Holland brought, Batavia 'rack,

All these will nought avail;

To chear a truly British heart,
And lively fpirits to impart,

Like humming, nappy ale.

IV.

Oh! whether thee I closely hug

In honeft can, or nut-brown jug,
Or in the tankard-hail!

In barrel or in bottle pent
1 give the gen'rous fpirit vent,-
Still may I feast on ale.

V.

But chief when to the chearful glafs, From veffel pure thy ftreamlets pass, Then moft thy charms prevail; Then, then I'll bet, and take the odds That nectar, drink of Heathen Gods, Was poor, compar'd to ale.

VI.

Give me a bumper-fill it up,
See how it fparkles in the cup,-
Oh! how fhall I regale:
Can any tafte this drink divine

And then compare rum, brandy, wine,
Or aught, to nappy ale.

VII.

Infpir'd by thee the warrior fights,
The lover woos, the poet writes,
And pens the pleafing tale;
And ftill in Britain's Ifle confeft,
Nought animates the patriot's breaft
Like gen'rous, nappy ale.

VIII.

Infpir'd by thee fhall crifpin fing,
Or talk of freedom, church, and king,
And balance Europe's fcale;

While his rich landlord lays out schemes
Of wealth in golden South-fea dreams,
Th' effects of nappy ale.

IX.

Obleft potation! still by thee,
And thy companion, Liberty,

Do health and mirth prevail; Then let us crown the can, the glass, And fportive bid the minutes pafs

In quaffing nappy ale,