EDWIN'S PILLS, &c, SONG

Lord! Lord! without victuals and drink, We poets must give up each strain; It helps us poor devils to think, And thrash with more vigour our brain. Without victuals and drink — Lord, the world were undone, 'Tis the soul of the world — 'tis the sine qua non.

The soldier 'midst battles alarms, Without it could ill face his foe, So faint would he handle his arms, And draw with such weakness his bow. Without victuals, &c.

What would ladies and gentlemen do, That say such fine things to each other; They would never be able to coo, They would never be father and mother. Without victuals, &c.

Then hey for good victuals and drink, Who's there that would not carouse: Whoever he may be, I think He's not to be found in this house. Without victuals, &c.