The Earthen Jug

Our trade to work in clay began, 'Ere the first man was made, For out of clay was made this man, And thus began our trade: Then friends put round the foaming mug, And take it with good will; Since man is but an earthen jug, This jug then let us fill: For how can he, ye wise ones say, Return to dust, who wets his clay.

In this the Jemmy Cheapside buck May take his orange shrub, Or Fleet-Street Miss at Dog and Duck, May quaff her syllabub: Or jovial Jack, that jolly dog, May treat his rosy wench, And over this, when fill'd with grog, Sing how he bang'd the French. And how can he, &c.

See here a noble christ'ning bowl, But fill it to the brim, So large, the baby, pretty soul, May like young Indian swim: The Covent-Garden swell at Jupp's In this may take his go; For Astley's punch-house here are cups, Pro bono publico. And how can he, &c.

The spacious bowl receives a crash, And falls to china taws; The toping tradesman gets a crash, While white-wash fills his flaws: Ye fair who leave fair virtue's track, And wish it to regain, If once the cup should get a crack, Ye patch and paint in vain. And how can he, &c.

And why abroad our money fling, To please our fickle fair, No more from China, china bring, Here's English china-ware: Then friends put round the foaming mug, And take it with good will; Since man is but an earthen jug, This jug, then let us fill. Then how can he, &c.

FROM whom I'm descended, or how I came here, Are points on which heralds themselves are not clear, Since, however, I mix with the mad sons of earth. They cannot deny but I one time had birth. If no annal, or chronicle, mentions my race, Let the stupid historian feel the disgrace; For unless, with great Ceasar, from Adam I came, More wonderful still is my title to fame. With this plea to origin—when I am gone, They may deck me with trophies, or let it alone; And if they embalm me, their zeal I'll forgive, Only don't let them stint me in wine—while I live.

COME, courage, lads, and drink away, A man upon his wedding day Ought rarely well his part to play, At Stingo or October: For who would be that stupid elf, For whim, caprice, or love, or pelf, To poison, hang, or drown himself, Or marry when he's sober?

For madam's will at nothing stops, She must have balls, and routs, and fops, And often ransacks all the shops, In gay attire to robe her. Then drink the day you take a wife, As the last comfort of your life, For, ever after, noise and strife Are sure to keep you sober.

How pleasant a sailor's life passes, Who roams o'er the watery main, No treasure he ever amasses, But cheerfully spends all his gain: We're strangers to party and faction, To honour and honesty true,

And would not commit a base action, For power and profit in view. Then why should we quarrel for riches, Or any such glittering toys? A light heart and a thin pair of breeches, Goes through the world my brave boys.

The world is a beautiful garden, Enrich'd with the blessings of life, The toiler with plenty rewarding, But plenty too often breeds strife: When terrible tempests assail us, And mountainous billows affright, No grandeur or wealth can avail us, But skilful industry steers right. Then why should we quarrel, &c.

The courtier's more subject to dangers, Who rules at the helm of the state, Than we, who to politics strangers, Escape the snares laid for the great: The various blessings of nature, In various nations we try, No mortals on earth can be greater, Who merrily live 'till we die. Then why should we quarrel, &c.

SONS of Bacchus lets be gay, Nimbly move the cheerful glass; Life is short and glides away, Let it then in pleasure pass; Phoebus now may hide his light, Silver Cynthia cease to shine, Bacchus' rays are far more bright, Sparkling from the gen'rous wine.

When the nymph is coy and cold, And puts on a scornful air, Bacchus makes the lover bold, Courage ever gains the fair: While the fool who wastes his time, Trifling o'er insipid tea, Ne'er can aim at things sublime, 'Till he freely drinks like me.