The Man in the Moon drinks Claret,
As it was lately sung at the Curtain Holywel
to the same tune.
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BAcchus the Father of drunken Nowles,
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Full Mazers Beakers Ghasses bowles
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Greasie Flapdragons flemish Upsie freeze
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With healths stabd 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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then whats laid on by Claret
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Pearl and ruby both set out the nose
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when thin small beer doth mar it.
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Rich wine is good,
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It heats the blood,
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It makes an old man lusty.
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The young to brawl.
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And Drawers up 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 you whitle,
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Then though twelve
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A clock it be
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Yet all the way go roaring,
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If the band,
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Of bills cry stand,
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Swears that you must a whor ---
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Such Gambols, such tricks, such figaries,
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We fetch though we touch no Canaryes,
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French wine till the welkin roares,
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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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Catzors, Rumbiloes, Whirlgigs,
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Crambo got in the huff-cap vain.
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The Divell in the places you wot where raign
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Brave wine it is thus tickles our heels,
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Mulld well in wine none sorrow feels.
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Our Moon man and his Powder beef mad crew
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thus caper through the liquor sweet turnep drew
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Round about over tables and joynd 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 sum sum scrapers.
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There is no sound,
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The eares can wound
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As lids of wine pots clinking
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Theres no such sport
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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 fild here
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Herrings pickeld
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Must be tickeld,
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Down to draw the liquor,
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The salt Sammon
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And fat Gammon,
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Makes your wine drink quicker.
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Our man in the Moon drinks Claret,
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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 wine untill the Sky looks blew,
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Hey for a turn thus above ground hey,
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O my noddle too heavy doth way,
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Me the glin Perry Syder 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 than though it make us stumble
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Yet scambling up a drunkard feels no pain
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But cryes sirra boy totker pottle again,
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We can drink no more unlesse we have
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full pipes of Trinidado,
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Give us the best it keeps our brains
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more warm then can freezado.
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It makes us sing,
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And cry hey jing,
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And laugh when Pipes lye broken.
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For which to pay
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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 youl pay no more.
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In these dayes
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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 flye his Dagger.
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If then you do love my Oast Claret,
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Fat Powder beef turnep and Carret.
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Come agen and agen
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And still welcome Gentlemen.
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