Merrily now let’s sing, carouse, and tiple,
Here’s Bristow milk, come suck this niple,
There’s a fault sir, never halt Sir, before a criple.
A CATCH.
28. Jog on, jog on the Foot path-way,
And merrily hen’t the stile-a;
Your merry heart go’es all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Your paltry mony bags of Gold,
What need have we to stare-for,