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User Name Thread Name Subject Posted
The Walrus at work Lyr Add: An Hundred Years Hence (6) Lyr Add: AN HUNDRED YEARS HENCE 07 Feb 02


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.


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