I Am a Jolly Toper, I am a raged Soph,
Known by the Pimples in my Face, with taking Bumpers off,

And a Toping we will go, we'll go, we'll go,
And a Toping we will go.

Come let's sit down together, and take our fill of Beer,
Away with all disputes, for we'll have no Wrangling here,
And a Toping, _&c._

With clouds of Tobacco we'll make our Noddles clear,
We'll be as great as Princes, when our Heads are full of Beer,
And a Toping, _&c._

With Juggs, Muggs, and Pitchers, and Bellarmines of Stale,
Dash'd lightly with a little, a very little Ale,
And a Toping, _&c._

A Fig for the _Spaniard_, and for the King of _France_,
And Heaven preserve our Juggs, and Muggs, and Q----n from all mischance,
And a Toping, _&c._

Against the Presbyterians, pray give me leave to rail,
Who ne'er had thirsted for Kings Blood, had they been Drunk with stale,
And a Toping, _&c._

And against the Low-church Saints, who slily play their part,
Who rail at the Dissenters, yet love them in their Heart,
And a toping, _&c._

Here's a Health to the Queen, let's Bumpers take in hand,
And may Prince _G----'s_ Roger grow stiff again and stand,
And a Toping, _&c._

Oh how we toss about the never-failing Cann,
We drink and piss, and piss and drink, and drink to piss again
And a Toping, _&c._

Oh that my Belly it were a Tun of stall,
My Cock were turn'd into a Tap, to run when I did call,
And a Toping, _&c._

Of all sorts of Topers, a Soph is far the best,
For 'till he can neither go nor stand, by _Jove_ he's ne'er at rest,
And a Toping, _&c._

We fear no Wind or Weather, when good Liquor dwells within,
And since a Soph does live so well, then who would be a King,
And a Toping, _&c._

Then dead Drunk We'll march Boys, and reel into our Tombs,
That Jollier Sophs (if such their be) may come and take our rooms, Sir
And a Toping may they go, _&c._

_Sir_ JOHN JOHNSON'S _Farewell, by_ JO. HAINS.

[Music]

All Christians that have Ears to hear,
And Hearts inclin'd to pity;
Some of you all bestow one Tear,
Upon my mournful Ditty:
In _Queen-street_ did an Heiress live,
Whose downfall when I sing;
'Twill make the very Stones to grieve,
God prosper long our King.

For her a _Scotish_ Knight did die,
Was ever the like seen;
I shame to tell place, how, or why,
And so God bless the Queen