This text comes from Rump Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Why art thou sad? Our Glasses flow
Like little Rivers to the Mayne;
And ne’re a man here has a Shrew,
What need’st thou then complain?
Then Boys mind your Glass,
And let all News pass
That treats not of this our Canary,
Let Lawyers fear their Fate,
In the turn of the State,
We suffer if this do miscarry,
Chor. ’Tis this will preserve us ’gainst Lillies predictions.
And make us contemn our Fate and his Fictions.
’Tis this that setts the City Ruff;
And lynes the Aldermen with Fur;
It makes the Watchmen stiff and tuff
To call, where go you Sir?
’Tis this doth advance
The Cap of Maintenance,
And keeps the Sword sleeping or waking;
It Courage doth raise
In such Men now adaies,
That heretofore cry’d at Head-aching,
Chor. ’Tis this doth infuse in a Miser some pity,
And is the Genius, and Soul of the City.
Then why should we dispair, or think
The Enemy approacheth near?
Let such as never used to drink
Sack, be enslav’d to Fear.
Then to get Honor,
And that waits on her,
Strange Titles, Illustrious and Mighty.
Wee’l have a smart Bout
Shall speak us men and stout,
And I’le be the first that shall fight ye.
Chor. He that stifly can stand to’t, and hath the best Braine;
Shall be styl’d Son of Mars and God of the Mayne.