Here's a health to our noble king,
And to the queen of his heart;
Let's laugh, and merrily fing,
And he's a coward that will start:
Here's a health to our general,
And to thofe that were in Spain,
And to our colonel,
And we'll ne'er be drunk again.
Enough's as good as a feast,
If a man did but meafure know;
A drunkard's worse than a beast,
For he'll drink till he cannot go.
If a man could time recall,
In a tavern that's spent in vain,
We'd learn to be fober all,
And we'd ne'er be drunk again.
E true honeft Britons who love your own land,
Y truth teres were fo brave, fo victorious and free,
Who always beat France when they took her in hand,
Come join, honeft Britons, in chorus with me.
Let us fing our own treafures, old Englands good cheer,
The profits and pleasures of ftout British beer
Your wine-tipling, dram-fipping fellows retreat,
But your beer-drinking Britons can never be beat.
The French with their vineyards are meagre and pale,
They drink of the squeezings of half-ripen'd fruit,
But we who have hop-grounds to mellow our ale,
Are rofy and plump, and have freedom to boot.
Let us fing, &c.
Should the French dare invade us thus arm'd with our poles,
We'll bang their bare ribs, make their lantern-jaws ring, For your beef-eating, beer-drinking britons are fouls, Who will spend their laft drop for their country and king.
Let us fing our own treafures, old Englands good cheer,
The profits and pleafures of ftout British beer.
Your wine-tipling, dram-fipping fellows retreat,
But your beer-drinking Britons can never be beat.
SONG XLVIII.
IN PRAISE OF ALE.
WHEN the chill Sirocco blows,
And winter tells a heavy tale,
When pies, and daws, and rooks, and crows,
Do fit and curfe the frofts and fnows,
Then give me ale.
Ale in a Saxon rumkin then,
Such as will make Grimalkin prate,
Bids valour burgeon in tall men,
Quickens the poets wit and pen,
Defpifes fate.
Ale, that the abfent battle fights,
And forms the march of Swedish drum,
Disputes with princes, laws and rights,
What's done and past tells mortal wights
And what's to come,
Ale, that the plowmans heart upkeeps,
And equals it to tyrants thrones,
That wipes the eye that over-weeps,
And lulls in fweet and dainty fleeps,
The o'er wearied bones.
Grand child of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter,
Wines emulous neighbour if but ftale,
Ennobling all the nymphs of water,
And filling each mans heart with laaghter,
Oh! give me ale.
THE EX-ALE-TATION OF ALE.
OT drunken, nor fober, but neighbour to both,
I met with a friend in Alesbury vale
He saw by my face, that I was in good cafe
To speak no great harm of a pot of good ale.
Then did he me greet, and said, fince we meet,
(And he put me in mind of the name of the dale)
For Alesburys fake some pains I would take,
And not bury the praise of a pot of good ale.
The more to procure me, then he did adjure me
If the ale I drank last were nappy and ftale,
To do it its right, and ftir up my fprite,
And fall to commend a pot of good ale.
Quoth I, to commend it I dare not begin,
Left therein my credit might happen to fail;
For many men now do count it a fin,
But once to look toward a pot of good ale.
Yet I care not a pin, for I fee no fuch fin,
Nor any thing else my courage to quail :
For this we do find, that take it in kind,
Much virtue there is in a pot of good ale.
And I mean not to tafte, though thereby much grac'd,
Nor the merry-go-down without pull or hale,
Perfuming the throat, when the ftomach's afloat,
With the fragrant sweet scent of a pot of good ale.
yet the delight that comes to the fight, To fee how it flowers and mantles in graile, As green as a leek, with a fmile in the cheek, The true orient colour of a pot of good ale.
But I mean the mind and the good it doth find;
Not only the body fo feeble and frail;
For body and foul may blefs the black bowl,
Since both are beholden to a pot of good ale.
For when heavinefs the mind doth opprefs,
And forrow and grief the heart do affail,
No remedy quicker than to take off your liquor,
And to wash away cares with a pot of good ale.
The widow that buried her husband of late,
Will foon have forgotten to weep and to wail. And think every day twain, till she marry again, If he read the contents of a pot of good ale.
It is like the belly-blaft to a cold heart,
And warms and engenders the fpirits vitale,
To keep them from damage all sp'rits owe their homage,
To the sprite of the buttery, a pot of good ale.
And down the legs to the virtue doth go,
And to a bad footman is as good as a fail;
When it fills the veins, and makes light the brains :
No lacky fo nimble as a pot of good ale.
The naked complains not for want of a coat,
Nor on the cold weather will once turn his tail;
All the way as he goes, he cuts the wind with his nose,
If he be but well wrapp'd in a pot of good ale.
The hungry man takes no thought for his meat,
Though his ftomach would brook a ten-penny nail;
He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer,
If he touch but the fparks of a pot of good ale.
The poor man will praise it, fo hath he good caufe,
That all the year eats neither partridge nor quail,
But fets up his reft, and makes up his feast,
With a cruft of brown bread, and a pot of good ale.
The fhepherd, the fower, the thresher, the mower,
The one with his fcythe, the other with his flail,
Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my foul,
All will hold up their hands to a pot of good ale.
The blacksmith whofe bellows all fummer do blow,
With the fire in his face ftill without e'er a veil,
Though his throat be full dry he will tell you no lie
But where you may be fure of a pot of good ale.
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