Catches, canons and drinking songs
Sing merrily now my lads,
here’s a catch that was never meant you,
but come by the wheel of fortune,
without any design or intent you,
it happened that once the author,
his head was exceeding hot,
a catch he resolved he would me,
and he couldn’t tell of what,
he thought of the smoak the weed affords,
and it vanished all away,
he thought of fine ladies and their fine lords,
and yet he found nothing to say,
he thought of a thousand pound,
but it wouldn’t turn to account,
he thought of the pot,
and he thought of the plot,
but nothing would come on’t,
at last he resolved, though nothing would do,
that nothing should put him by Sir,
but nothing to purpose of nothing he’d write,
and nobody should be the wiser,
’tis nothing to you if he would do so,
and if nothing’s in’t you find,
then thank him for thing,
and that will be more than ever he designed.