BALLAD. (Arrah if 'tis no lie in this…)

Arrah if 'tis no lie in this world we are living, And it en't, for 'tis seen every day, That the truest of joys honest hearts are receiving Are those they are giving away.

Sure men are all sisters, and cousins, and brothers, And 'tis clear to the stupidest elf That the best kind of comfort a man gives to others Is that which he takes to himself.

Thus this bodder and game, this same meum and tuum, Means the devil a meaning but suum.

For your friend's peace of mind should you let your mouth water, And be getting the wish you obtain, In possessing his purse, or his wife, or his daughter, What delight would the joy be but pain.

Then let knav'ry alone, the vain work's useless labour, Be't for love, or for pow'r, or for pelf, For every wrong that a man does his neighbour, Sure is not he doing himself?

Thus this bodder, &c.

If I'm rich, and should chuse to do good to another, Arrah fait for the selfish design Devil tank me, for if you allow I'm his brother, Faith and conscience sure in not he mine?

But, says musty morality, chuse objects fitting: Just your sermons lay by on the shelf; Why you stupid old big wig, arrah sure 'ent I getting For one joy of his ten for myself.

Thus this bodder, &c.

Then from such botheration in pity release us, Fortune all you bestow will repay, And though poor as Job, you'll be all rich as Craesus, For you'll keep what you've given away:

The fine generous maxim then while you're pursuing Spend your all to hoard mountains of pelf, Soar high while you're sinking, be prosp'rous in ruin, And give joy to enjoy it yourself.

And thus have I proved, &c.