I Paint The Cot, As

Our Farmers Round, Well Pleased With Constant Gain, Like Other Farmers, Flourish And Complain.

Lo! The Poor Toper Whose Untutored Sense, Sees Bliss In Ale, And Can With Wine Dispense; Whose Head Proud Fancy Never Taught To Steer, Beyond The Muddy Ecstasies Of Beer.

What Is A Church?—our Honest Sexton Tells, 'tis A Tall Building, With A Tower And Bells.

Fears Of Sinning Let In Thoughts Of Sin.

The Game Is Never Lost Till Won.