Tune - "Prepare, My Dear Brethren, To The Tavern Let'S Fly." I. No Churchman Am I For To Rail And To Write, No Statesman Nor Soldier To Plot Or To Fight, No Sly Man Of Business, Contriving To Snare, For A Big-Bellied Bottle'S The Whole Of My Care. Ii. The Peer I Don't Envy, I Give Him His Bow; I Scorn Not The Peasant, Tho' Ever So Low; But A Club Of Good Fellows, Like Those That Are Here, And A Bottle Like This, Are My Glory And Care. Iii. Here Passes The Squire On His Brother, His Horse; There Centum Per Centum, The Cit With His Purse; But See You The Crown, How It Waves In The Air! There A Big-Bellied Bottle Still Eases My Care. Iv. The Wife Of My Bosom, Alas! She Did Die; For Sweet Consolation To Church I Did Fly; I Found That Old Solomon Proved It Fair, That A Big-Bellied Bottle'S A Cure For All Care. V. I Once Was Persuaded A Venture To Make; A Letter Inform'D Me That All Was To Wreck; But The Pursy Old Landlord Just Waddled Up Stairs, With A Glorious Bottle That Ended My Cares. Vi. "Life'S Cares They Are Comforts,"[1] A Maxim Laid Down By The Bard, What D'Ye Call Him, That Wore The Black Gown; And Faith I Agree With Th' Old Prig To A Hair; For A Big-Bellied Bottle'S A Heav'N Of Care. Vii. Added In A Mason Lodge. Then Fill Up A Bumper And Make It O'Erflow. The Honours Masonic Prepare For To Throw; May Every True Brother Of The Compass And Square Have A Big-Bellied Bottle When Harass'D With Care!