LET Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise,
And Money be Misers wish;
Poor Scholars study all their Days,
And Gluttons glory in their Dish:
’Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,
Therefore give us chearing Bowls.
Let Minions marshal in their Hair,
And in a Lover’s lock delight;
And artificial Colours wear,
We have the Native Red and White.
’Tis Wine, &c.
Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon,
And how to please your Palates think:
Give us a salt Westphalia-Gammon,
Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink.
’Tis Wine, &c.
It makes the backward Spirits brave,
That lively, that before was dull;
Those grow good Fellows that are grave,
And kindness flows from Cups brim full,
’Tis Wine, &c.
Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume,
Some have the Palsie, some the Gout;
Some swell with Fat, and some consume,
But they are sound that drink all out.
’Tis Wine, &c.
Some Men want Youth, and some want Health,
Some want a Wife, and some a Punk;
Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth,
But he wants nothing that is drunk.
’Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,
Therefore give us chearing Bowls.
Jenny making Hay.
[[Listen]]
POOR Jenny and I we toiled,
In a long Summer’s Day;
Till we were almost foiled,
With making of the Hay;
Her Kerchief was of Holland clear,
Bound low upon her Brow;
Ise whisper’d something in her Ear,
But what’s that to you?
Her Stockings were of Kersey green,
Well stitcht with yellow Silk;
Oh! sike a Leg was never seen,
Her Skin as white as Milk:
Her Hair as black as any Crow,
And sweet her Mouth was too;
Oh Jenny daintily can mow,
But, &c.
Her Petticoats were not so low,
As Ladies they do wear them;
She needed not a Page I trow,
For I was by to bear them:
Ise took them up all in my Hand,
And I think her Linnen too;
Which made me for to make a stand;
But, &c.
King Solomon had Wives enough,
And Concubines a Number;
Yet Ise possess more happiness,
And he had more of Cumber;
My Joys surmount a wedded Life,
With fear she lets me mow her;
A Wench is better than a Wife,
But, &c.
The Lilly and the Rose combine,
To make my Jenny fair;
There’s no Contentment sike as mine;
I’m almost void of Care:
But yet I fear my Jenny’s Face,
Will cause more Men to woe;
Which if she should, as I do fear,
Still, what is that to you?