From ''The bacchanalian magazine; and Cyprian enchantress'', pp21-2, 1793. :: listen to the tune (midi file)
'''THE BLADISH BRITON.'''--Tune--Over the Water to Charley.'
Ye Rakehells so jolly, Who hate melancholy, And love a full flask and a doxy; Who ne'er from Love's feats, Like a coward retreats, Afraid that the harlot shall pox ye; While we live till we die. To the Shakespear let's fly, Where we shall find both in great plenty; With the juice of the vine, Our senses refine, And drink till the hogshead is empty.
Now each joyous fellow, While thus we are mellow, And the fumes of the grape does inspire; While that's to be had, Let's be damnably mad, And fling all our calps in the fire: Break bottles and glasses, Bilk landlord and lasses, What rascal our humour dare hinder? If any presume To come into the room, We'll throw the dog out of the window.
Here, waiter, more liquor; Zounds, man! bring it quicker; Champaigne, by all true topers courted; Without these damn'd tricks, French brandy to mix, But genuine neat as imported: While thus cherry merry, Let Harris* and Derry** With faces uncommon supply us: Poll French, and Bett Weeyms, And such batter'd old brims, Ye pimps, let them never come nigh us.
Like Quixote of old, As we have been told, Let's sally in search of adventures; Mother Johnson we'll rout, Kick her bullies about, And knock known the Watch, if he enters. Drink and whore all our lives, Lie with other men's wives, Attempt ev'ry damsel we hit on; D--n and swear, and tell lies, 'Flagellation' despise-- And this is the life of a Briton.
*The Proprietor of 'Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies.' **The Editor of the same Work.
From ''The musical repository'', pp100-2, 1799. :: listen to the tune (midi file)
'''THE TANKARD OF ALE.'''
Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both, I met a young man upon Aylesbery vale, I saw by his force that he was in good case To come and take share of a tankard of ale, la ral la la la ra la la la ra la la ra la la ra la la I saw by his face that he was in good case To come and take share of a tankard of ale.
The hedger who works in the ditches all day, And labours so very hard at the plough tail, He'll talk of great things, about princes and kings, When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
The beggar that begs without any legs, She's scarce got a rag to cover her tail, Yet's as merry with rags as a miser with bags, When once she shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
The widow that buried her husband of late, She's scarcely forgotten to weep or to wail, But thinks every day ten till she's married again, When once she shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
The old parish vicar, when he's in his liquor, Will merrily at his parishioners rail, Come pay all your tithes, or I'll kiss all your wives, When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
The old parish clerk, with his eyes in the dark, And letter so small that he scarcely can tell, He'll read every letter, and sing the psalms better, When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
If wrangling and jangling, or any such strife, Or any things else may happen to fall, From words turn to blows and a sharp bloody nose, We're friends again over a tankard of ale.