THE CHARMS of MELODY, SONG 81

Push about the brisk bowl: 'twill enliven the heart, While thus we sit round on the grass: The lover, who talks of his suff'rings and smart, Deserves to be reckon'd an ass, an ass, Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.

The wretch, who sits watching his ill-gotten pelf, And wishes to add to the mass, Whate'er the curmudgeon may think of himself, Deserves to be reckon'd an ass, Deserves, &c.

The beau, who, so smart with his well powder'd hair, An angel beholds in his glass, And thinks with grimace to subdue all the fair, Deserves to be reckon'd an ass, Deserves, &c.

The merchant from climate to climate will roam, Of Croesus the wealth to surpass: And oft, while he's wand'ring, my lady at home Claps the horns of an ox on the ass, Claps the horns, &c.

The lawyer so grave, when he puts in his plea, With forehead well fronted with brass, Tho' he talks to no purpose, he pockets your fee; There you, my good friend, are an ass, There you, &c.

The formal physician, who knows ev'ry ill, Shall last be produced in this class; The sick man a while may confide in his skill, But death proves the doctor an ass, But death, &c.

Then let us, companions, be jovial and gay, By turns take our bottle and lass; For he who his pleasure puts off for a day, Deserves to be reckon'd an ass, an ass, Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.