Lyr Add: An Hundred Years Hence

Subject: Lyr Add: AN HUNDRED YEARS HENCE
From: The Walrus at work
Date: 07 Feb 02 - 01:20 PM

I couldn't see this one in the listing (now watch someone come up with references and blickies to prove me wrong).

I came across this song many years ago on a record of "Georgian" period songs (although whether all were period pieces, I'm not sure), however, this one stuck in my mind.
As ever, my memory is a little faulty, so there are a couple of words which I can't remember or may have misheard. If anyone has any other verses I look forward to seeing them.
I regret I have no way of passing on the tune.

Walrus

An Hundred Years Hence

Let us drink and be merry, dance joke and rejoice,
With claret and sherry, the oboe and voice,
This wicked old world, to our joy is unjust,
All treasures uncertain, then down with your dust.
In frolic dispence your pounds, shillings and pence,
For we shall be nothing an hundred years hence.

We will sport and be free with Fran, Betty and Dolly,
Take lobsters and oysters to cure melancholy.
Each dinner we'll take them and spring like a flea
Dame Venus, thus maybe, was born of the sea.
With her an with Bacchus, we'll tickle the sense
For we shall be passed it an hundred years hence.

You beautiful ???? (girl?), who has all eyes upon her
Who, her honesty sells, for an ergo(?) of honour,
Whose lightness and brightness doth cause such a splendour
That none are thought fit, but the stars, to attend her.
Although she seems pleasant and sweet to the sense,
She'll be damnably mouldy an hundred years hence.

Your plush coated quack who, his fees to enlarge,
Kills people with licence and at their own charge,
Who builds a vast structure of ill-gotten wealth
from the dregs of a piss-pot and ruins of health.
'Though treasures of life, he pretends to dispense,
He'll be turned into mummy an hundred years hence.

Your usurer who, in one hundred, takes twenty,
Who mourns in his wealth and who pines in his plenty
Saves up for a season he never shall see
The year of One Thousand Eight Hundred and Three
When he'll turn all his bags, all his houses and rents
For a worm eaten coffin an hundred years hence.

Aye, the poet himself, who so loftily sings
That he scorns any subject but Heroes and Kings,
Must to the capricios of Fortune submit
And oft times be thought a fool for his wit.
Thus Beauty, Wit, Wealth, Law, Learning and Sense
Must all come to nothing an hundred years hence.

Subject: ADD: The Careless Gallant / The Epicure
From: Malcolm Douglas
Date: 07 Feb 02 - 04:57 PM

The lyric was written by Thomas Jordan (1612?-1685) for his municipal pageant, The Triumphs of London (1675), where it was called The Epicure. Sung by one in the habit of a Town Gallant. It appeared in Choice Ayres, Songs & Dialogues, I, 1675, set to a tune by Robert Smith which had previously been used for The Longing Maid (Playford's Choice Songs and Ayres, 1673), and subsequently on a number of broadsides with no tune direction. (Information from Claude. M. Simpson, The British Broadside Ballad and Its Music, 1966).

Jordan's text appears in The Oxford Book of English Verse (Quiller-Couch edition) as Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant. It is not the same version posted above, being a later revision, so I give it separately.

CORONEMUS NOS ROSIS ANTEQUAM MARCESCANT

(Thomas Jordan, 1675)

LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!
The changeable world to our joy is unjust,
All treasure's uncertain,
Then down with your dust!
In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,
Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:
Fish-dinners will make a lass spring like a flea,
Dame Venus, love's lady,
Was born of the sea;
With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense,
For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd
And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground,
Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour
That none but the stars
Are thought fit to attend her,
Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,
Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,
Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears?
Let's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,
'Tis certain, Post mortem
Nulla voluptas.
For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,
Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

There is a broadside edition at Bodleain Library Broadside Ballads:

The careless gallant, or, A farewel to sorrow Printed between 1674 and 1679 for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clarke. [London] I transcribe it below, with original spelling, punctuation and capitalisation retained:

THE CARELESS GALLANT or, A FAREWEL TO SORROW

(Thomas Jordan, 1675)

Let us sing and be merry, dance, Joke and rejoyce,
With Claret and Sherry, Theorbo, and voyce,
The changeable world to our joy is unjust,
All treasures uncertain,
Then down with your dust:
In frolicks dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'l sport and be free, with Frank, Betty and Dolly,
Have Lobsters and Oysters to cure melancholly,
Fish-Dinners will make a man spring like a flea,
Dame Venus, loves Lady,
Was born of the Sea:
With her and with Bacchus, we'l tickle the sense,
For we shal be past it a hundred years hence.

Your beautiful bit, who hath all eyes upon her,
That her honesty sells, for a hogo of honour,
Whose lightness & brightness hath cast such a splender,
That none are thought fit
But the stars to attend her;
Though now she seems pleasant, and sweet to the sence,
Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Your greatest Grand Seignior who rants it in riot,
Not suffering his poor Christian neighbours live quiet,
Whose numberless army that to him belongs,
Consists of more Nations,
Than Babel hath tongues,
Though numerous as dust, yet in spite of defence,
Shall all lie in ashes a hundred years hence.

Your Usurer that in the hundred takes twenty,
Who wants in his wealth, and pines in his plenty,
Lays up for a season which he shall ne'r see,
The year of one thousand
Eight hundred and three;
Shall have chang'd all his Baggs, his houses and Rents,
For a worm-eaten Coffin a hundred years hence.

Your Chancery-Lawyer, who by conscience thrives,
In spining a sute to the length of three lives,
A sute which the Clyent doth wear out in slavery,
whilst pleader makes conscience
a cloak for his Knavery:
Can boast of his cunning but i'th present-Tence,
For Non est inventus a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoyl in cares and fears?
And turn our tranquillity to sighs and tears,
Let's eat, drink, and play ,e'r the worms do corrupt us
For I say, that
Post mortem nulla voluptas,
Let's deal with our Damsels, that we may from thence
Have broods to succeed us a hundred years hence.

I never could gain satisfaction upon
Your dreams of a bliss when we'r cold as a stone,
The Sages, call us Drunkards, Gluttons & wenchers:
But we find such Morsels,
Upon their own trenchers:
For Abigal, Hannah, and sister Prudence,
Will simper to nothing a hundred years hence.

The Plush-coated Quack that his fees to inlarge,
Kills people with Licence, and at their own charge,
Who builds a vast structure of ill gotten wealth,
from the degrees of a Piss-pot
and ruines of health,
Though treasures of life he pretends to dispence,
Shall be turn'd into mummy a hundred years hence.

The Butterfly Courtier that Pageant of state,
The Mouse-trap of honour, and May-game of fate,
Withall his ambitions, intrigues, and his tricks,
must dye like a Clown,
and then drops into Stir,
His plots against death, are too slender a fence,
For he'l be out of place a hundred years hence.

Yea, the Poet himself that so loftily sings,
As he scorns any subjects, but Hero's or Kings,
Must to the Capricio's of fortune submit,
and often be counted
a fool for his wit,
Thus beauty, wit, wealth, law, learning and sense,
All come to nothing a hundred years hence.

I found a short text on a website which gave verse two (above) as commencing:

We'll kiss and be free with Nan, Betty, and Philly,
Have oysters and lobsters, and maids by the belly;
Fish-dinners will make a lass spring like a flea...

The site-owner named no source of any kind, though, so I can't say whether or not it is authentic.

Claude. M. Simpson, (The British Broadside Ballad and Its Music, 1966), gives notation for Robert Smith's tune, taken from Playford's Choice Songs and Ayres, 1673, noting that it was set to The Town Gallant in a different key and with slight alterations. A midi will go to the Mudcat Midi Pages: meanwhile it can be heard via the South Riding Folk Network site:

The Careless Gallant

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: (& Lyr request) An Hundred Years He
From: Malcolm Douglas
Date: 07 Feb 02 - 05:01 PM

That final link was wrongly punctuated; it should be:  The Careless Gallant

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: (& Lyr request) An Hundred Years He
From: The Walrus
Date: 07 Feb 02 - 06:09 PM

Malcolm,

Many thanks.

As I mentioned, my version came from (a very faulty) memory, so the differences are probably my errors.
Your post reminded me of a verse that I'd forgotten (The Courtier), however, one line
"...and then drops into Stir,.."
to complete the rhyme, shouldn't that be
"...and then drops into Styx,..." (as in the River Styx, the river of the dead)?

Thanks again.

Walrus

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: (& Lyr request) An Hundred Years He
From: Malcolm Douglas
Date: 07 Feb 02 - 08:40 PM

I think you're right about that, and I misread the word; they spelled it Stix, of course.  Thanks for pointing it out.

I also neglected to quote the verse preamble:

Whether these lines do please, or give offence,
Or shall be dam'd as neither wit nor sense,
The Poet is, for that, in no suspence,
For it is all a hundred years hence.

To an excellent, and delightful Tune.

Your Chancery-Lawyer begins the second part of the piece; "the second part, to the same tune."

Subject: Lyr Add: A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 28 Oct 07 - 08:01 AM

Found with Google Book Search, in The Tea-table Miscellany, Or, A Collection of Choice Songs, Scots and … by Allan Ramsay, 1750.

A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

I. LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke and rejoice,
With claret, canary, theorboe and voice;
The changeable world to our joys is unjust,
And all pleasure's ended when we are in dust!
In mirth let us spend our spare hours and our pence,
For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

II. The butterfly courtier, that pageant of state,
That mouse-trap of honour, and may-game of fate;
For all his ambition, his freaks and his tricks,
He must die like a bumpkin, and fall into Styx:
His plot against death's but a slender pretence,
Who'd take his place from him a hundred years hence!

III. The beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd
And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground;
Her glittering dress does cast such a splendor,
As if none were fit but the stars to attend her;
Altho' she is pleasant and sweet to the sense,
She'll be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

IV. The right-hearted soldier, who's a stranger to fear,
Calls up all his spirits when danger is near;
He labours and fights, great honour to gain,
And hardily thinks it will ever remain;
But virtue and courage prove in vain a pretence,
To flourish his standard a hundred years hence.

V. The merchant who ventures his all on the main,
Not doubting to grasp what the Indies contain,
He buzzes and bustles like a bee in the spring,
Yet knows not what harvest the autumn will bring;
Tho' fortune's great queen should load him with pence,
He'll ne'er reach the market a hundred years hence.

VI. The rich bawling lawyer, who, by fools wrangling strife,
Can spin out a suit to the end of a life;
A suit which the client does wear out in slavery,
Whilst the pleader makes conscience a cloak for his knavery;
Tho' he boasts of his cunning, and brags of his sense,
He'll be non est inventus a hundred years hence.

VII. The plush-coated quack, who, his fees to enlarge,
Kills people by licence, and at their own charge;
He builds up fair structures with ill-gotten wealth,
Buy the dregs of a piss-pot, and the ruins of health;
By the treasures of health he pretends to dispense,
He'll be turn'd into a mummy a hundred years hence.

VIII. The meagre-chopp'd usurer, who in hundreds gets twenty,
But starves in his wealth, and pines in his plenty;
Lays up for a season he never will see,
The year of one thousand eight hundred and three:
He must change all his houses, his lands and his rents,
For a worm-eaten coffin a hundred years hence.

IX. The learned divine, with all his pretensions
To knowledge superior, and heavenly mansions;
Who lives by the tithe of other folks labour,
Yet expects that his blessing be receiv'd as a favour,
Tho' he talks of the spirit and bewilders our sense,
Knows not what will come of him a hundred years hence.

X. The poet himself, who so loftily sings,
And scorns any subject but heroes or kings,
Must to the capricio of fortune submit;
Which will make a fool of him in spite of his wit.
Thus health, wealth, and beauty, wit, learning and sense,
Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

XI. Why should we turmoil then in cares and in fears,
By converting our joys into sighs and to tears?
Since pleasure abound, let us ever be tasting,
And to drive away sorrow while vigour is lasting,
We'll kiss the brisk damsels, that we may from thence
Have brats to succeed us a hundred years hence.

XII. The true-hearted mason, who acts on the square,
And lives within compass by rules that are fair;
Whilst honour and conscience approve all his deeds,
As virtue and prudence directs he proceeds,
With friendship and love, discretion and sense,
Leaves a pattern for brothers a hundred years hence.