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 Flaporagons, Flemish upsie freeze,
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With health stap'd 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 real 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 what's 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,
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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 mawl,
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And the Drawars 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 to whittle,
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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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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 por 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 got in Huff Cap vain,
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The Devil in the places you wet were raign,
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Brave Win[e] it thus tick[le]s [o]ur Heels,
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Mull'd well in wine none sorrow feels,
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Our Moon-man & his powder-beef mad crew
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Thus caper through the liquor sweet Turnip drew.
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Round about over tables & join'd stools
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let's dance with naked Rapiers,
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Cut the Fiddle-strings and then like fools,
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kick ont the fum fum scrapers,
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There is no sound,
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That cares can wound,
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As lids of Wine pots clinking,
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There's no such sport
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When all amort,
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Men cry l[e]t's fall to drinking;
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O 'tis happy Geer,
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Would each belly was filled here,
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Herrings pickl'd,
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Must be tickel'd,
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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 our Wine drink quicker.
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Our Man in the Moon drinks Clarret,
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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, Syder, nor strong Ale,
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Are half so heady, be they ne'r 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 tumbl[e]
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Yet scrambling up a Drunkard feels no pa[in]
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But cryes Sirrah Boy, t' other Pottle aga[in]
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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 keps our brains,
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more warm then does freezado.
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It makes us sing,
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And cry hey ding,
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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 you'l pay no more:
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In these days,
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He is no gallant,
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That cannot puff and swagger,
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Though he dare
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Not kill a sheep,
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Yet out must flye his dagger:
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If then you do love my Hoast's Clarret,
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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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