The Man in the Moon Drinks Clarret.
As it was lately sung at the Curtain Holy Well. To the same Tune.
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BAcchus the father of drunken Nowls,
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Full Mazers, Beakers, Glasses, bowls,
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Greasie Flapdragons, Flemish upsie freeze,
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With health s[t]apd in arms upon naked knees
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Of all his wines he makes you tasters,
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So you tipple like bumbasters.
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Drink till you reel a welcome he doth give,
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O how the boon Claret makes you live?
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Not a Painter purer colour shows
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than whats laid on by Claret,
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Pearl and Ruby doth set out the Nose,
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when thin small beer doth mar it,
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Rich wine is good, it heats the blood,
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it makes an old man lusty,
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The Young to brawl, and the Drawers call,
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before being too much musty.
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Whether you drink all or little,
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Pot it so your selves to whittle,
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Then though twelve a Clock it be,
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Yet all the way go roaring,
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If the band of bills cry stand,
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Swear that you must a Who--
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Such Gambols, such tricks, such fegaries,
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We fetch though we touch no Canaries:
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Drink wine till the Welkin roars,
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And cry out a pox of your Scores.
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In wine we call for bawdy Jiggs,
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Catzoes, Rumbillows, whirligigs,
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Campo get in Huff Cap vain,
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The Devil in the places you wot were raign,
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Brave wine it thus tickles our Heels,
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Mulld well in wine none sorrow feels,
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Our Moon-man & his powder-beef mad crew
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Thus caper thro the liquor sweet turnip drew,
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Round about over tables and joint stools
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lets dance with naked Rapiers,
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Cut the Fidle-strings, and then like fools
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kick out the fum fum scrapers,
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There is no sound that cares can wound,
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as lids of wine-pots clinking,
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Theres no such sport, when all amort,
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men cry lets fall to drinking;
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O tis nappy Geer,
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Would each belly was filled here,
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Herrings pickled must be tickled,
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Down to draw the liquor,
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The salt Sammon and fat Gammon,
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Makes our wine drink quicker,
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Our Man in the Moon drinks Clarret,
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With powder-beef turnep and carret,
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If he doth so, why should not you,
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Drink until the Sky looks blew.
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Hey for a turn thus above Ground,
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O my Noddle too heavy doth weigh,
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Metheglin, Perry, Sider, nor strong ale,
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Are half so heavy, be they nere so stale:
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Wine in our Guts can never rumble,
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Down now and then tho it make us tumble;
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Yet scrambling up a Drunkard feels no pain,
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but crys Sirrah boy, tother pottle again,
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We can drink no more unless we have
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full pipes of Trinnidado,
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Give us the best it keeps our brains
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more warm than does freezado.
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It makes us sing and cry hey ding,
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And laugh when Pipes lie broken,
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For which to pay at going away,
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we scorn a Mustard token;
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Never curse the sawcy Score,
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Out-swear the bar youll pay no more;
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in these daies he is no Gallant
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That cannot puff and swagger,
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though he dare not kill a sheep,
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Yet out must flie his dagger:
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If then you do love my Hosts Clarret,
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Fat powder-beef, turnip and carret,
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Come again and again,
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And still welcome Gentlemen.
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