Several lines in this song were incorporated in the better-known ballad of the Vicar of Bray, said by Nichols in his Select Poems to have been written by a soldier in Colonel Fuller’s troop of dragoons, in the reign of George I. Butler’s ballad, though unpublished, must therefore have been known at the time. To the tune of “London is a fine town.” I LOVED no King since forty-one, When Prelacy went down; A cloak and band I then put on And preach’d against the crown. A turn-coat is a cunning man That cants to admiration, And prays for any king to gain The people’s approbation. I show’d the paths to heaven untrod, From Popery to refine ’em, And taught the people to serve God, As if the Devil were in ’em. A turn-coat, etc. When Charles return’d into our land, The English Church supporter, I shifted off my cloak and band, And so became a courtier. A turn-coat, etc. The King’s religion I profest, And found there was no harm in ’t; I cogg’d and flatter’d like the rest, Till I had got preferment. A turn-coat, etc. I taught my conscience how to cope With honesty or evil; And when I rail’d against the Pope I sided with the Devil. A turn-coat, etc. THE CLARET DRINKER’S SONG, OR THE GOOD FELLOW’S DESIGN. Being a pleasant song of the times, written by a person of quality.—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. iii. Wine the most powerfull’st of all things on earth, Which stifles cares and sorrows in their birth; No treason in it harbours, nor can hate Creep in when it bears away, to hurt the State. Though storms grow high, so wine is to be got, We are secure, their rage we value not; The Muses cherish’d up such nectar, sing Eternal joy to him that loves the King. To the tune of “Let Cæsar live long.” A POX of the fooling and plotting of late, What a pudder and stir has it kept in the State! Let the rabble run mad with suspicions and fears, Let ’em scuffle and rail till they go by the ears,— Their grievances never shall trouble my pate, So I but enjoy my dear bottle at quiet. What coxcombs were those that would ruin their case And their necks for a toy, a thin wafer, and mass! For at Tyburn they never had needed to swing Had they been but true subjects to drink and their King: A friend and a bottle is all my design,— He’s no room for treason that’s top-full of wine. I mind not the members and makers of laws, Let them sit or prorogue as his Majesty please; Let ’em damn us to Woolen, I’le never repine At my usage when dead, so alive I have wine; Yet oft in my drink I can hardly forbear To blame them for making my claret so dear.