. The Roxburghe ballads. h the cowardly terrors of pietistic is Bibos true music of sack-butt and psaltery:— When my thread it is spun, and my hour comes to dieLike Diogenes I in a Sack-Butt will that close wainscote-room shall my body confine,Who valued not Women, but loved good AVine. The original woodcut, copied by us on the following page, prophetically anticipates Charles George Lelands inimitable Hans Breittman gife a barty, whereat they all cot troonk ash pigs, especially illustrating the lines, I poot mine mout to a parrel of Bier,Und emptied it oop mit a sch
. The Roxburghe ballads. h the cowardly terrors of pietistic is Bibos true music of sack-butt and psaltery:— When my thread it is spun, and my hour comes to dieLike Diogenes I in a Sack-Butt will that close wainscote-room shall my body confine,Who valued not Women, but loved good AVine. The original woodcut, copied by us on the following page, prophetically anticipates Charles George Lelands inimitable Hans Breittman gife a barty, whereat they all cot troonk ash pigs, especially illustrating the lines, I poot mine mout to a parrel of Bier,Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs! We ask, as of these merry boys, Where is dat barty now?All goned afay mit de Lager-Bier,Afay in de Ewigkeit ! 85 [Roxburghe Collection [ B. H. Brights), IV. 61.] C|)e 0E)errp Bops of Europe. fio 3Lfquor tikt tfjc orisfe Canarri,3tt makes the trail Soul fjlith ano metro;£t helps the Back, prolongs the 3Lifc,&no is much better than a W&iU. To the Tune of, Noiv, now the Fights done, fyc. [Vol. IV. 243.]. ILe Drink off my Bottle each night for my share,And as for a Mistris Ile never take care ;The one makes me jolly and evermore gay,But a Mistris destroys by her sporting and play :She drains all my Blood, till I look quite as paleAs a Thief thats half-starved, long kept in a Gaol. 86 The Merry Boys of Europe. She infeebles my Nerves, and doth shorten my Life,And empties my Pockets, and so will a , Women ! make Asses of those that you can,Ile find out a Comrade, some jolly young-man;And in our full Glasses wel laugh and wel jest,So perhaps for diversion wel drink to the best. 12 When our senses are drownd, and our eyes they do pink,And our selves do not know what we say or do think,Our wits we conceive are far better then theyWho to the Sack-Bottle could ner find the way:Then a Pox of those Misers who hourly do scrape,And knows not the virtue that lies in the Grape. 18 Then Beauties, farewel, for Ile ner be your slave,Nor for your fair looks sigh my self to a G
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidroxburghebal, bookyear1879
