The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you the Crown how it waves in the air? There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care. The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; for sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck; But the pursy old landlord just waddl’d upstairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. “Life’s cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down By the Bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown; And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair, For a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care. A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May ev’ry true Brother of the Compass and Square Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care. My Father Was A Farmer Tune—“The weaver and his shuttle, O.” My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O; For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. Then out into the world my course I did determine, O; Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O; My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O: Resolv’d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O; Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O; And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. Then sore harass’d and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O; The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O; But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O. No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O; So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O; To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.