]

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._

[Music]

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?_

_The Knott