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John Preſton has good liquor,
good liquor it is ſaid,
Good liquor makes good blood,
and good blood pretty maids.
She gathers it and ſhe binds it,
ſhe loads it in her arms,
She pitch’d it to the waggoner,
for to fill up his barns.
And thus the induſtrious farmer,
by the ſweet of his brow,
He labours and endeavours,
to make his barley mow.
Now harveſt it’s all over,
and corn it's free from harm;
Before we to the market go,
we muſt threſh in the barn.
And at the harveſt ſupper,
ſo merrily we will ſing,
We’ll drink a health to the barley-mow,
and to good George our King.
So here’s a good health to the farmers,
or elſe we are to blame,
We’ll wiſh them health and happineſs,
’till harveſt comes again.
THE TEMPEST.
CEaſe, rude Boreas, bluſt’ring railer,
list ye landmen unto me:
Meſs-mates, hear a brother ſailor,
ſing the dangers of the ſea.
