Page:Constant swain (2).pdf/8

 Was I cast on some distant shore, Where do the foaming billows roar, For my desire would be in this, To a lovely lass and a jug of this.

Yet was I sick, both pale and wan, And scarcely able for to stand, All my own cure could be in this, A lovely lass and a jug of this.

When I am dead and laid in my grave, No corse-like-tomb-stone let me have; Give me my desire and crown my wish, Drink o'er my grave a hogshead of this.