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: Some say indeed she swore a Rape, But God knows who was wrong'd; For he that did it did escape, And he did not was Hang'd. Some say another thing beside, If true? it was a Vice; That _Campbell_ when she was his Bride, Did trouble her but thrice: 'Twas this the young Girls Choler mov'd, And in a Rage she swore; E'er she'd be a Wife but three times lov'd, She'd sooner be a Whore.