King of Good-Fellows:
OR,
The Merry Topers Advice.
Being a Pleasant New Song much in Request.
This is the Man whose Company once had,
Will make Men Cheearful, though of late but sad:
He hates Curmudgeons, but does Court the Blade,
That will spend free, for Drinking is a Trade;
By it long Nights flye swift, and seem but short,
No Pastimes like unto true Tippling sport.
To a Pleasant New Tune.
|
I Am the King and Prince of Drunkards,
|
Hectoring roaring tipling Boys:
|
I always use to drink whole Bumpers,
|
and the Ale-house fill with noise:
|
In the Tavern I do rant and roar,
|
I drink more Wine then any can:
|
Therefore am I both far and nigh,
|
calld a Hogshead, not a Man.
|
I rant and roar, and I call for more,
|
I practice drinking night and day:
|
I always boast that I drink most,
|
yet never a Farthing do I pay.
|
But if any falls asleep, to their pockets I do creep,
|
and out their Purses I do draw,
|
The Reckoning I do pay, & so go my way,
|
and I leave them a sighing, Ye, ho.
|
Some says Drinking does disguise Men,
|
and their wits turns out of doors:
|
Fools they are, & I am sure no wise Men,
|
for they lye like Sons of Whores.
|
For when a mans in drink, he speaks what he thinks
|
hes not drunk, but frank & free,
|
It is not with them, so theyr a cup too low
|
for they are disguizd with modesty.
|
|
|
|
|
The Second part, to the same Tune.
|
All the night I do tipple good Wine,
|
which resists both heat and cold:
|
And pay devotion at Bacchus his shrine,
|
whilst the Hogshead it does hold.
|
For the meanest slave, by drinking grows brave,
|
& all cares they are layd aside:
|
The Prisoner is free, if drunk he be,
|
and no longer does grief abide.
|
Twas I that lately drank a Piss-pot
|
filld with Sack unto the brim,
|
And to my Friend, and he drank his Pot,
|
so merrily went about the Whim:
|
two gaspins at a draught I pourd down my throat
|
but hang such trifling things as these,
|
I laid me all along, put my nose unto the Bung,
|
and drank out a Hogs-head full with ease:
|
I heard of a man that drank whole Tankards,
|
called himself the Prince of Sots,
|
Dam such idle Puny Drunkards,
|
melt their Tankards, break their Pots:
|
A friend and I did joyn for a Seller full of Wine,
|
and we drank the Vintner out of door,
|
We drank it all up, in a morning at a sup,
|
and greedily stared about for more:
|
With that my friend he made a motion,
|
said, lets not part with such dry Lips,
|
And straight we went unto the Ocean,
|
where we met with a fleet of Ships;
|
They were laden all with Wine,
|
and they swore twas super-fine,
|
And they said they had ten thousand Tun:
|
we drank it all at Sea, not a drop suckt the Key
|
And the Vintners swore they were all undone.
|
For a Man that can stoutly tipple,
|
need not fear the World goes well:
|
It will make caper, though a Cripple,
|
and bid sorrows all farewel.
|
Then tother round is still the sound,
|
come fill us more wine boys with speed:
|
We ner ought shall lack, whilst we hand sack
|
tis that which our spirits does feed.
|
Come bring in twenty Gallons more,
|
let us drink till the world it runs round,
|
And twenty to that wel set oth score,
|
we can but be put in the Pound.
|
but catch me if they can, for I will be gone,
|
and find out fresh quarters next night:
|
Ile drink the Town dry, and what care I,
|
Ile dot if it be but for spight.
|
Come wash the Glass, fill a bumper,
|
heres a health to each honest Lad:
|
And a confusion to each Rumper,
|
lets drink while tis to be had:
|
whilst the Stars they look blew, & day again we view
|
for theres nothing thats sober found:
|
The sun sucks the Ocean, the stars in their motion
|
all do carrouse it round.
|
|
|
|
|