A Huy and Cry after Sir John Barlycorn,
A base Rebel denounc'd at the Horn,
Fled from the Country where he was bred and Born.
|
WE all the Drunkards of the Nation,
|
Issue Our Royal Proclamation
|
To you great King at Arms, the Lion,
|
(Since every Leidge thro' Drought is dying;)
|
With all your Bretheren, Heraulds too,
|
And Pursuevants, that follow you.
|
On Sight hereof, you mount the Cross,
|
Display your Coats and your Cognosce,
|
By Trumpet Voice will reach each Garrat,
|
Publish to all the World Our Arret.
|
Forasmuch as We and Adherents,
|
By many Acts of Our Sederunts,
|
Have found, That Sir JOHN BARLEYCORN
|
Was for the good of Mankind born,
|
And therefore, that the Commonwealth
|
Should drink his Blood to nourish Health:
|
And that no free Leidge may be mocked,
|
Who has a Penney in his Pocket;
|
His Tutor-Datives call'd the Brewers,
|
Without Respect to Saints or Whores,
|
Shall distribute thro' every Inn
|
His Blood, to be a Medicine:
|
And they who fail thro' mad Pretences,
|
Which none will do, that keep their Senses,
|
Be held a Rebel 'gainst the King,
|
And Capers cut in Hangies string:
|
Yet notwithstanding, throw Contempt
|
(Which merits well a Hank of Hemp)
|
Of Justice, all Our Agents tell Us,
|
The D---l a Drap is in an Ale-House.
|
No more he comes to Bowl and Ring,
|
Where he was ay the Tradesmens King;
|
He's left the Beaux in Bowling-Green,
|
And never at the Nine-Pins seen,
|
Where Prentice Boys did toil and sweat
|
Like Dog in Jack, that turns the Spit,
|
And all the Boddles that they won,
|
Giv'n to their Sov'reign Lord Sir JOHN.
|
No more he's Preses of the Rabble,
|
At Shuffle-Boards or Billard-Table;
|
On Penny-Weddings turn's his Back,
|
No more he gets the Pipers Plack:
|
Fiddlers can neither say nor sing,
|
Their Throats as dry as Fiddel-String.
|
He made young Farmers blyth and fow,
|
Each Jockie kiss'd his Jenny's Mow,
|
And suck'd her Lips he was so keen,
|
At Babies glour'd in others Eeen,
|
The Threesome Reel danc'd to a Wonder,
|
And Maiden Heads went off like Thunder;
|
At Fun'rals never shows his Head,
|
The Living now's as dull's the Dead,
|
The Lady Relict kiss'd Sir John,
|
And rifted up the other Groan,
|
But now with Grief she's doubly sunk,
|
Wants both Sir John and the Defunct.
|
Our Will is herefore, tell the People,
|
With Voice as loud as Bells in Steeple,
|
They search and apprehend the Trewan,
|
Who basely has deserted Brewing;
|
Betray'd by Fellows, who tell Lies,
|
That he will sink thro' dear Excise:
|
And they shall have a high Reward,
|
Bring him before a drunken Laird,
|
Who sleept not sound a single Night
|
Since Sir JOHN BARLEYCORN took Flight;
|
Cries thro' his Dreams, I'll starve this Year,
|
The fein a Farthing for our Bear:
|
How will my Meg get Hoods and Hoops,
|
Bra Cloaths came from the Ale-Wives Stoups,
|
Jock my old Son, and Will, his Brother,
|
May turn Religious like their Mother;
|
Quit all their Hounds, and Hawks and Whores;
|
Na' mair keep Ale-House and the Muirs,
|
Next if you'l apprehend the Lown,
|
And bring him to Auld-rickies Town,
|
Rich Burger's Wives will pay 'em fine,
|
Who's Throats are dry with Forty nine.
|
And Citizens, whose Purse is shorter,
|
Are all consum'd with English Porter.
|
If He return not at your Call,
|
He's get the Curses of us all.
|
His EPITAPH.
|
BLyth has he been, but now He's gone,
|
Of Commerads the best:
|
What will we do without Sir JOHN,
|
With Grief we're sore oppress'd:
|
A better Subject and a Friend
|
The Kingdom never saw;
|
But ah! He made a fatal End,
|
And yet He dy'd by Law.
|
|
|
|
|
|