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One night he brought home pots of ale,

And made his wife well fuddled,
They kiss'd and hugged—no spouse did rail,
But went to bed and cuddled,

Tol de rol, &c.
And when the rosy morn appeared,

They went to work together,
And laughed and joked till it came night,

With hearts as light as feather;
They then would both together sup;

Together they would muddle,
And, drunk as sows, they'd leave their cup,
And reel to bed and cuddle.

Tol de rol, &e.

THE wealthy fool, with gold in store,

Will still desire to grow richer;
Give me but these, I ask no more,
My charming girl, my friend and pitcher.
My friend so rare, my girl so fair,

With such, what mortal can be richer?
Give me but these, a fig for care,

With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher From morning sun I'd never grieve,

To toil a hedger or a ditcher,
If that when I came home at eve,
I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.'

My friend so rare, &c.
Though fortune ever shuns my door,

I know not what can thus bewitch her,
With all my heart can I be poor, .
With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, &

Let the farmer praise his grounds,
As the huntsman does his hounds

And the shepherd his sweet-scented lawn,
While I more blest than they,
Spend each happy night and day

With my smiling little croos-keen lawn, lawn, lawn,

Oh, my smiling little croos-keen lawn.
Leante ruma croos-keen
Sleante gar ma voor meh neen
Argus gramachree ma cooleen ban, ban, ban,
Argus gramachree ma cooleen ban.
In court with manly grace,
Should Sir Toby plead his case,

And the njerits of his cause make known
Without his cheerful glass
He'd be stupid as an ass,
So he takes a little croos-keen lawn.'

Leante ruma, &c.
Then fill your glasses high,
Let's not part with lips so dry,

Though the lark should proclaim it dawn;
But if we can't remain,
May we shortly meet again,
To fill another croos-keen lawn.

Leante ruma, &c.
And when grim death appears,
After few but happy years,

And tells me my glass it is run,
I'll say, begone you slave,
For great Bacchus gives me lave
Just to fill another croos-keen lawn.

Leante ruma, &c.

WINE, wine is alone the brisk fountain of mirth,
Whence jollity springs, and contentment has birth,
What mortals so happy as we who combine,
And fix our delight in the juice of the vine?
No care interrupts when the bottle's in view,
Then glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue.
Our laws are our own, not enforced by the crown.
And we stand to them fair, till we fairly fall down;
At acts or repeals we disdain to repine,
Nor grudge any tax, but the tax on our wine;
To Cæsar and Bacchus our tribute is due,
Then glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue.
His worship, so grave, here may revel and roar;
The lawyer speak truth, who ne'er spoke so before;
The parson here, stript of his priesthood's disguise;
And Chloe's scorned lover get drunk and grow wise ;
The husband may learn here to combat the shrew,
So glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue.
The chase of the bottle few accidents wait,
We seldom break necks, though we oft crack a pate:
If wars rise among us, they soon again cease,
One bumper brings truce, and another brings peace:
'Tis this way alone we life’s evils subdue;
Then glass after glass, my boys, let us pursue.

COME, come, my jolly lads,

The wind's abaft;
Brisk gales our sails shall crowd:-
Come, bustle, bustle, bustle, boys,

Haul the boat;
The boatswain pipes aloud;

The ship's unmoored,
All hands on board;
The rising gale

Fills every sail;
The ship's well manned and stored.
Then sling the lowing bowl-

Fond hopes arise

The girls we prize, Shall bless each jovial soul:

The can, boys, bring

We'll drink and sing,
While foaming billows roll.
Though to the Spanish coast

We're bound to steer,
Our rights we'll there maintain;
Then bear a hand be steady, boys,

Soon we'll see
Old England once again.

From shore to shore,
While cannons roar,
Our tars shall show

The haughty foe,
Britannia rules the main.

Then sling, &c.

PALE faces, stand by,

And our bright ones adore,
We look like our wine,

You worse than our score.
Come, light pu your pimples,

All art we outshine;
When the rosy god paints,

Each streak is divine.
Clean glasses are pencils,

Old claret is oil;

He that sits for this picture,

Must sit a good while.

Let am'rous bards in verse sublime,

Sing Chloe's face, her shape, her skin;
Ods bobs! I envy not their rhyme
If I can get a glass of gin.

Derry down, &c.
Hail, matchless liquor! but for thee,

Who'd care for life a single pin;
For troubles, as by magic, Alee
From those who love a glass of gin.

Derry down, &c.
If spouse, at home, in wordy war

Strikes up the matrimonial din,
No blows I use; 'tis better far
To soothe her with a glass of gin.

Derry down, &c.
When keen misfortune's piercing dart

Assails or stranger, friend or kin, “ A quartern ho!" I'll cheer his heart By giving him a glass of gin.

Derry down, &c.
Did I but know his name aright

Who first to use the stuff brought in;
At morning, noon, and last at night,
I'd toast him in a glass of gin.

Derry down, &c. Oh! never, whilst my hand can lift

The cordial nectar to my chin,
May I be driven to a shift
To get a bumper glass of gin.

Derry down, &c.

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