IV. And you farewell! whose merits claim, SONG. SONG. Tune.- PREPARE, MY DEAR BRETHREN, " TO THE TAVERN LET'S FLY.' I. No churchman am I for to rail and to write, II. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; III. 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. IV. The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; ས. I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck; VI. '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 care. A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, Young's Night Thoughts. WRITTEN WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITH-SIDE. THOU whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, As |