The Merry Boys of Europe.
No Liquor like the brisk Canary,
It makes the dull Soul blith and merry;
It helps the Back, prolongs the Life,
And is much better then a Wife.
To the Tune of, Now, now the Fights done, etc.
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ILe Drink of my Bottle each night for my share,
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And as for a Mistris Ile never take care;
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The one makes me jolly and evermore gay,
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But a Mistris destroys by her sporting and play;
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She drains all my Blood till I look quite as pale
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As a Thief thats half-starved, long kept in a Goal.
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She infeebles my Nerves, and doth shorten my life,
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And empties my Pockets, and so will a Wife;
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Then Women make Asses of those that you can,
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Ile find out a Comrade, some jolly young-man;
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And in our full Glasses wel laugh and wel jest,
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So perhaps for diversion wel drink to the best.
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When our senses are drownd, & our eyes they do pink
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And our selves do not know what we say or do think;
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Our wits we conceive are far better then they,
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Who to the Sack-Bottle could ner find the way:
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Then a Pox of those Misers who hourly do scrape,
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And knows not the virtue that lies in the Grape.
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Then Beauties farewel, for Ile ner be your slave,
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Nor for your fair looks sigh my self to a Grave,
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But the Bottle Ile hug, which preserveth my life,
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Puts an end to my sorrows, and banisheth strife:
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When my thread it is spun; & my hour comes to dye;
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Like Diogenes I in a Sack-Butt will lye.
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And that close Wainscot-room shall my body confine,
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Who valued not women, but loved good wine;
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To Bacchus Ile surely be a Sacrifice,
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And ner be intangled by Ladies fair eyes;
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Whose delight is to see men to sigh and to mourn,
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And their eyes they do feast when they see men forlorn
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What a fool is that man that will bow & will cringe
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To beauty, so he doth his freedom infringe;
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And whilst he might live and for-ever be free,
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Himself he deprives of his chief Liberty;
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His rest it is lost and his spirits do fail,
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Hes a foe to himself and doth build his own Goal.
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Then give me the Lad that will swim in the Bottle,
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And not in salt water like vexd Aristotle;
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For had he but then been acquainted with Sack,
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His Judgment in tides he never would lack;
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When he by his study his brains did confound,
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He leapt in the Ocean, and there he was drownd.
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But this Liquor of Life which I so much commend
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To ery true Toper, will prove a true friend,
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And wash from his heart all his sorrow and care,
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In Poverty keep him from doubt and dispair:
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Then who can but love this unparalleld thing.
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That makes nobles of peasants; & is drink for a King.
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If the mind be disturbd, take this Liquor but free,
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And youl find in a moment you cured will be:
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If you grieve or do mourn for the loss of a friend,
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This Liquor undoubtedly comfort will lend;
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Tis good for all Men, and in every condition,
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Will keep them from charge of a prating Physitian.
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Then matchless Canary Ile sing forth thy fame,
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And will against Beauty for ever exclaim,
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For he that doth once fall in love with the Vine,
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Will never have reason at all to repine;
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For it cheers our dull souls, while we merrily sing,
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Long live Charles the second, our Soveraign King.
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In the height of our sport we no Treason conspire,
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To be brisk and be merry is all our desire;
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Our hearts have no harbour for any ill thought;
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We despise spight and malice and all that is nought:
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And in our full Bumpers wel laugh and wel sing,
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And for our diversion wel drink to the King.
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