BACCHANA/?I ?t N PETER ? POULK Ova vicar still preaches, that Peter amt Ponle Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl'; That there's wrath and despair in the jolly Mack jack, And the seven deadly sins in a noggin of sack; Yet, whoop, Barnaby, off with thy ?iquor, Drink,. hip! ace it out, ?nd & fig for the vicar. Our vicar, he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip; Swears that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apo!lyon shoots d.axts from l?er merry Mack eye, Yet, whoop for the sack, and kiss Gillian, the quaker, Till she Mooms like a rose, and a fig for the vicar. Our vicar th?s preaches, and why should he not; For the dues of his cure am his. placket and pot; And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch, Who infringo the domains of our good mother church, Yet, whoop, bully boys, ind off with your liquor, Sweet Margery's the word! and a fig for the v'war. THE JOYS OF DRIBIirlN(?. Pooa Joe, the miller, loved good ale,. And oft would spend his hob,-- His wife, poor soul, would oft times rail, And swear she'd break his nob; They'd fight and' quarrel--make it up, Each vow'd they'd look it over, They'd kiss and sap, and take their cup, Amt then to bed in clover. Tol do rol, He ne'er would listen to advice, That his poor wife did ?ive him, Nor 0othing e'er would him suffice, ? to the joys of drinking;
�
