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From PLAYFORD'S “Choice Aires," 1660
There was a jovial beggar,

He had a wooden leg,
Lame from his cradle,

And forced for to beg.
And a begging we will go, will go, will go,
And a begging we will go.
A bag for his oatmeal,

Another for his salt,
And a pair of crutches
To show that he can halt.

And a begging, &c.
A bag for his wheat,

Another for his rye,
And a little bottle by his side,
To drink when he's a dry.

And a begging, &c.
Seven years I begged

For my old master Wild,
He taught me to beg
When I was but a child.

And a begging, &c.
I begged for my master,

And got him store of pelf,
But, Jove now be praised,
I'm begging for myself.

And a begging, &c.
In a hollow tree

I live and pay no rentProvidence provides for me, And I am well content.

And a begging, &c.
Of all the occupations,

A beggar's is the best,
For, whenever he 's a-weary,
Ile can lay him down to rest.

And a begging, &c.

I fear no plots against me,

I live in open cell,
Then who would be a king
When beggars live so well ?

And a begging we will go, &c. This song is the prototype of many others in the English language, including the popular favourite, “A Hunting we will go," which appears among the sporting songs in this olume, and " A Sailing we will go," which appears among the sea songs.


From PLAYFORD'S “Musical Companion," Part II., 1687.
In praise of a dairy I purpose to sing,
But all things in order—first, God save the King.

And the Queen, I may say,

every May-day,
Has many fine dairy-maids, all fine and gay:
Assist me, fair damsels, to finish my theme,
Inspiring my fancy with strawberry cream.
The first of fair dairy-maids, if you'll believe,
Was Adam's own wife, our great grandmother Eve,

Who oft milked a cow,
As well she knew how,

Tho' butter was then not so cheap as 'tis now:
She hoarded no butter nor cheese on a shelf,
For butter and cheese in those days made itself.
In that age or time there was no horrid money,
Yet the children of Israel had both milk and noney.


you see,
Of the highest degree,

But would milk the brown cow with the meanest she:
Their lambs gave them clothing, their cows gave them meat,
And in plenty and peace all their joys were complete.
Amongst the rare virtues that milk does produce,
For a thousand of dainties it's daily in use;

Now a pudding, I'll tell ye,
Ere it goes in the belly,

Must have from good milk both the cream and the jelly:
For a dainty fine pudding, without cream or milk,
Is a citizen's wife, without satin or silk.

No queen


In the virtues of milk there is more to be muster'd
Than charming delights both of cheese-cake and custard,

For at Tottenham Court
You can have no sport,

Unless you have custard and cheese-cake too for 't.
And what's the jack-pudding that makes us to laugh,
Unless he hath got a great custard to quaff.
Both pancake and fritter, of milk have good store,
But a Devonshire white-pot must needs have much more.

No state you can think
Though you study and wink,

From the lusty sack-posset to ponr posset drink,
But milk's the ingredient, tho'sack's ne'er the worse,
For 't is sack makes the man, tho’’t is milk makes the nurse.



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Dr. Walter Pope, born about 1630, died 1714
If I live to grow old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate :-in a country town,
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.
Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance, whereon I may
With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.
With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more
Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before ;
With roast mntton, rather than ven'son or veal,
And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal.
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away,
Withont gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

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With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to welcome the Vicar;
With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine,
To drink the King's health as oft as I dine.
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better, as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.
With a courage undaunted may I face my last day ;
And when I am dead may the better sort say,
In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,
“He's gone, and has left not behind him his fellow :
For he governd his passions with absolute sway,
And grew wiser and better, as strength wore away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay."

It seems odd to modern notions, that so sensible a gentleman-who governed his passions with absolute sway-should have ever “ got mellow” at all. Drunkenness, however, was considered a venial vice in those days, by the few who did not consider it a positive virtue “in the evening."


A Parody, attributed to DEAN SWIFT, on a popular song, by A. Bradley (circ. 1740)

beginning “Gently strike the warbling lyre.”

GENTLY slir, and blow the fire,

Lay the mutton down to roast;
Dress it quickly, I desire;

In the dripping put a toast,
That I hunger may remove ;
Mutton is the meat I love.

On the dresser see it lie,

Oh! the charming white and red !
Finer meat ne'er met my eye,

On the sweetest grass it fed :
Let the jack go quickly round,
Let me have it nicely brown'd.

Some versions 'substitute for this line, the following:

"With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine.'

On the table spread the cloth,

Let the knives be sharp and clean :
Pickles get and salad both,

Let them each be fresh and green:
With small beer, good ale, and wine,

Oh! ye gods, how I shall dine !
Several attempts have been made to raise eating into the dignity which drinking has
so long enjoyed-of being a theme for song-but all in vain. "The Roast Beef of Old
England" is the only exception, amid a mass of failures.



To fair FIDELE's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear,

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew;
But female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain

In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or 'midst the chase upon the plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

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