The Man in the Moon drinks Claret.
As it was lately Sung at the Court in Holy-well.
To the same Tune.
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BAcchus the Father of drunken Owls,
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Full Mazers, Beakers, Glasses, Bowls;
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Greasie Flapdragons, Flemish Upsie-frieze,
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With health tapp'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 bombasters;
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Drink till ye 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 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 do marr 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 braul,
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And the 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 to yourselves 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 Vegaries,
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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 bady Jigs,
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Catzoes, Rumbillows, whirlegigs,
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Canbo got in huff cap Vein,
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The Devil in the places you wot were ta'en;
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Brave wine it thus tickles our heels,
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Mull'd well in wine none sorrow feels;
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Our Moon-man and his Powder'd-beef mad crew,
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Thus caper thro' the Liquor sweet turnip drew,
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Round about, over the tables and joynt 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 out the Fum, Fum Scrapers,
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there is no Sound
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that Cares can wound,
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Like Lids of wine-pots clinking;
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there's no such sport,
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when all-a-mort,
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Men cry, Let's 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 pickl'd,
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Must be tickl'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 Claret;
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If he doth so, why should not you,
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Drink until the Sky looks blue?
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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 never so stale:
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Wine in our Guts can never rumble,
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Down now and then, though it makes us tumble,
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Yet scrambling up, a Drunkard feels no pain,
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But crys, Sirrah, boy, t' other Pottle again;
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We can drink no more unless we have
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full Pipes of tinandado;
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Give us the best, it keeps brains
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more warm than 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'll pay no more;
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In these Days,
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He is no Gallant,
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That cannot huff and swagger,
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though he dare
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Not kill a Sheep,
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Yet out must flie his Dagger:
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If then you do love my Host's Claret,
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Fat Powder'd-beef, turnip and Carret,
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Come, agen, and agen,
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And still, welcome, Gentlemen.
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