As tippling John was jogging on, upon a riot night, With tottering pace, and fiery face, suspicious of high flight; The guards who took him by his look, for some chief fiery-brand, Ask'd whence he came? What was his name? who are you? stand friend, stand.
I'm going home, from meeting come, ay, says one, that's the case; Some meeting he has burnt, you see the flame's still in his face. John thought it time to purge his crime, and said, My chief intent Was to asswage my thirsty rage, i'th' meeting that I meant.
Come, friend, be plain, you trifle in vain, says one, pray let us know. That we may find how you're inclin'd; are you High-Church or Low? John said to that, I'll tell you what, to end debates and strife, All I can say this is the way I steer my course of life.
I ne'er to Bow, nor Burgess go, to steeple-house nor hall, The brisk bar-bell best suits my zeal with gentlemen, d'ye call? Guess then, am I Low-Church or High, from that tow'r, or no steeple. Whose merry toll exalts the soul, and must make high-flown people!
The guards came on, and look'd at John with countenance most pleasant, By whisper round they all soon found he was no damag'd peasant: Thus while John stood the best he cou'd, expecting their decision; Damn him, says one, let him be gone, he's of our own religion.
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