Good Ale for my money.
The Good-fellowes resolution of strong Ale,
That cures his nose from looking pale.
To the tune of, The Countrey Lasse.
|
BE merry my friends, and list a while
|
unto a merry jest,
|
It may from you produce a smile,
|
when you heare it exprest,
|
Of a young man lately married,
|
which was a boone good fellow,
|
This song ins head he alwaies carried,
|
when drinke had made him mellow,
|
I cannot go home, nor I will not go home,
|
its long of the oyle of Barly:
|
Ile tarry all night for my delight,
|
and go home in the morning early,
|
No Tapster stout, or Vintner fine,
|
quoth he shall ever get
|
One groat out of this purse of mine
|
to pay his masters debt:
|
Why should I deal with sharking Rookes,
|
that seeke poore gulls to cozen,
|
To give twelve pence for a quart of wine,
|
of ale twill buy a dozen.
|
Twill make me sing, I cannot etc.
|
The old renowned I pocrist
|
and Raspie doth excell,
|
But never any wine could yet
|
my honour please to swell.
|
The Rhenish wine or Muskadine,
|
sweet Malmsie is too fulsome,
|
No give me a cup of Barlie broth,
|
for that is very wholesome,
|
Twill make me sing, I cannot etc.
|
Hot waters ar to me as death,
|
and soone the head oreturneth,
|
And Nectar hath so strong a breath
|
Canary when it burneth,
|
It cures no paine but breaks the braine,
|
and raps out oathes and curses,
|
And makes men part with heavie heart,
|
but light it makes their purses,
|
I cannot go home, etc.
|
Some say Metheglin beares the name,
|
with Perry and sweet Sider
|
Twill bring the body out of frame.
|
and reach the belly wider:
|
Which to prevent I am content
|
with ale thats good and nappie.
|
And when thereof I have enough.
|
I thinke my selfe most happy.
|
I cannot go home, etc.
|
All sorts of men when they do meet
|
both trade and occupation,
|
With curtesie each other greet,
|
and kinde humiliation:
|
A good coale-fire is their desire,
|
whereby to sit and parly,
|
Theyle drinke their ale and tell a tale,
|
and go home in the morning early.
|
I cannot go home, etc.
|
Your domineering swaggering blades,
|
and Cavaliers that flashes,
|
That throw the Jugs against the walls,
|
and break in peeces glasses,
|
When Bacchus round cannot be found
|
they will in merriment
|
Drinke ale and beere, and cast of care,
|
and sing with one consent.
|
I cannot goe home, etc,
|
|
|
|
|
The second part: To the same tune,
|
HEre honest John, to thee Ile drinke,
|
and so to Will and Thomas,
|
None of this company I thinke,
|
will this night part from us:
|
While we are here weell joyne for beere
|
like lively lads together,
|
We have a house over our heads,
|
a fig for ranie weather.
|
I cannot go home, nor I will not go home,
|
its long of the oyle of barly,
|
I stay all night for my delight.
|
and go home in the morning early.
|
Heres Smug the smith, & Ned the Cook,
|
and Frank the fine felt-maker,
|
Heres Steven with his silver hooke,
|
and Wat the lustie baker:
|
Heres Harry & Dick, with Greg & Nicke,
|
heres Timothy the Tailor,
|
Heres honest [K]it, nere spoke of yet,
|
and George the joviall Sayler.
|
That cannot etc.
|
Weell sit and bouse and merily chat,
|
and freely we will joyne
|
For care neere paid a pound of debt,
|
nor shall pay none of mine:
|
Here is but eighteen pence to pay,
|
since every man is willing,
|
Bring drinke withall the speed you may,
|
weell make it up two shillings.
|
We cannot etc.
|
Let Father frowne, and Mother chide,
|
and Uncle seeke to find us,
|
Here is good lap here will we bide
|
weel leave no drinke behinde us,
|
A proverbe old I have heard told,
|
by my deere dad and grandsire,
|
He was hangd that left his drinke behinde
|
therefore this is our answer,
|
We cannot etc.
|
James the Joyner he hath paid,
|
and Anthony the Glover,
|
Our hostesse hath a pretty maid,
|
I cannot chuse but love her:
|
Her pot sheell fill, with right good will,
|
heres ale as browne as a berry,
|
Twill make an old woman dance for joy,
|
and an o[l]d mans heart full merry
|
I cannot etc.
|
Twill make a Souldier domineere,
|
and bravely draw his rapier,
|
Su[ch] vertue doth remaine in beere
|
twill make a Cripple caper:
|
Women with men, will now and then
|
sit round a drinke a little,
|
Tom Tinkers wife on Friday night
|
for drinke did pawne her kettle,
|
She could not come home, nor would not come home
|
her belly began to rumble,
|
She had no power to go nor stand;
|
but about the street did tumble.
|
Thus to conclude my verses rude,
|
would some good-fellowes here
|
Would joyne together pence a peece
|
to buy the singer beere:
|
I trust none of this company
|
will be herewith offended,
|
Therefore call for your Jugs a peece
|
and drink to him that pend it.
|
|
|
|
|