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OF

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; LONGMAN, HURST, REES,

ORME, 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;
CRADOCK AND JOY; R. BALDWIN; AND J. MAJOR.

1813.

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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 honest fellows—’sdeath! who'd ever think
Of puling for love, while he's able to drink.

Vol. II.

"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? 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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