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William Boyce
(1711 - 1779)
Push about the brisk bowl
(Song)
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Push about the brisk bowl
(Song)
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A song probably written for performance in the London pleasure Gardens. Published in Clio and Euterpe, or British Harmony, 1762.
Lyrics: Anon
Push about the brisk bowl, 'twill enliven the heart,
While we sit around on the grass;
The lover, who talks of his suff'rings and smart,
Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.
The wretch who sits watching his ill-gotten pelf
And wishes to add to the mass;
Whate'er the curmudgeon may think of himself,
Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.
The beau, who so smart with his well-powder'd hair,
An angel beholds in his glass,
And thinks with grimace to subdue all the fair,
May justly be reckon'd an ass.
The merchant from climate to climate will roam,
Of Croesus the wealth to surpass,
And oftwhile he's wand'ring, my lady at home
Claps the horn of an ox on an ass.
The lawyer, so grave when he puts in his plea,
With forehead well cover'd with brass;
Tho' he talk to no purpose he pockets your fee:
There you, my good friend, are the ass.
The formal physician, who knows ev'ry ill,
Shall last be produc'd in this class.
The sick man awhile may confide in his skill,
But death proves the doctor an ass.
Then let us companions be jovial and gay,
By turns take our bottle and lass:
For he who his pleasure puts off for a day
Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.
Push about the brisk bowl, 'twill enliven the heart,
While we sit around on the grass;
The lover, who talks of his suff'rings and smart,
Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.
The wretch who sits watching his ill-gotten pelf
And wishes to add to the mass;
Whate'er the curmudgeon may think of himself,
Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.
The beau, who so smart with his well-powder'd hair,
An angel beholds in his glass,
And thinks with grimace to subdue all the fair,
May justly be reckon'd an ass.
The merchant from climate to climate will roam,
Of Croesus the wealth to surpass,
And oftwhile he's wand'ring, my lady at home
Claps the horn of an ox on an ass.
The lawyer, so grave when he puts in his plea,
With forehead well cover'd with brass;
Tho' he talk to no purpose he pockets your fee:
There you, my good friend, are the ass.
The formal physician, who knows ev'ry ill,
Shall last be produc'd in this class.
The sick man awhile may confide in his skill,
But death proves the doctor an ass.
Then let us companions be jovial and gay,
By turns take our bottle and lass:
For he who his pleasure puts off for a day
Deserves to be reckon'd an ass.