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ENGLISH SONGS,

WITH THEIR

ORIGINAL AIRS:

AND

A HISTORICAL ESSAY

on THE
ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF NATIONAL SONG,
BY THE LATE

JOSEPH RITSON, Esq.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

-
THE SECOND EDITION,
With

ADDITIONAL SONGS AND OCCASIONAL NOTES.
By THOMAS PARK, F. S. A.
VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED For F. c. AND J. RivingtoN ; Long MAN, HuRST, REEs,
or ME, AND BRowN ; LAckingtoN, ALLEN, AND Co.; CADELL AND
DAvies; c. LAw; s. BAGster; J. BookER ; BLACK, PARRY, AND
Co.; J. M. Richardson ; J. Booth; R. PRIESTLEY ; R. SCHOLEY ;

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Pho pox o'this nonsense, I prithee give o'er,
And talk of your Phyllis and Chloe no more ;
Their face, and their air, and their mien—what a rout !
Here's to thee, my lad!—push the bottle about.

Let finical fops play the fool and the ape ;
They dare not confide in the juice of the grape :
But we homest fellows—'sdeath ! who'd ever think
Of puling for love, while he's able to drink.

Vol. II. B

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'Tis wine, only wine, that true pleasure bestows ;
Our joys it increases, and lightens our woes;
Remember what topers of old us’d to sing,
“The man that is drunk is as great as a king.’

If Cupid assaults you, there's law for his tricks;
Anacreon's cases, see page twenty-six :
The precedent's glorious, and just, by my soul;
Lay hold on, and drown the young dog, in a bowl.

What's life but a frolic, a song, and a laugh
My toast shall be this, whilst I’ve liquor to quaff,
May mirth and good fellowship always abound.
Boys, fill up a bumper, and let it go round.

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BETTER our heads than hearts should ake,
Love's childish empire we despise ;

Good wine of him a slave can make,
And force a lover to be wise.

Wine sweetens all the cares of peace,
And takes the terror off from war;

To love's affliction it gives ease,
And to our joys does best prepare.

Better our heads than hearts should ake,
Love's childish empire we despise;

Good wine of him a slave can make,

. ...And force a lover to be wise,

SONG III.

SoME say women are like the seas, Some the waves, and some the rocks; Some the rose that soon decays ; Some the weather, and some the cocks: But if you'll give me leave to tell, There's nothing can be compar'd so well, As wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

Women are witches, when they will,
So is wine, so is wine;
They make the statesman lose his skill,
The soldier, lawyer, and divine ;
They put a gig in the gravest skull,
And send their wits to gather wool:

'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

What is't that makes your visage so pale
What is't that makes your looks divine :
What is't that makes your courage to fail?
Is it not women 2 Is it not wine :
'Tis wine will make you sick when you're well;
'Tis women that make your forehead to swell:

'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

SONG IV.

THE women all tell me I’m false to my lass,
That I quit my poor Chloe, and stick to my glass;
But to you men of reason, my reasons I'll own ;
And if you don't like them, why—let them alone.

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