As tippling John was jogging on,upon a riot night,With tottering pace, and fiery face,suspicious of high flight;The guards who took him by his look,for some chief fiery-brand,Ask'd whence he came? What was his name?who are you? stand friend, stand.
I'm going home, from meeting come,ay, says one, that's the case;Some meeting he has burnt, you seethe flame's still in his face.John thought it time to purge his crime,and said, My chief intentWas to asswage my thirsty rage,i'th' meeting that I meant.
Come, friend, be plain, you trifle in vain,says one, pray let us know.That we may find how you're inclin'd;are you High-Church or Low?John said to that, I'll tell you what,to end debates and strife,All I can say this is the wayI steer my course of life.
I ne'er to Bow, nor Burgess go,to steeple-house nor hall,The brisk bar-bell best suits my zealwith gentlemen, d'ye call?Guess then, am I Low-Church or High,from that tow'r, or no steeple.Whose merry toll exalts the soul,and must make high-flown people!
The guards came on, and look'd at Johnwith countenance most pleasant,By whisper round they all soon foundhe was no damag'd peasant:Thus while John stood the best he cou'd,expecting their decision;Damn him, says one, let him be gone,he's of our own religion.
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