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 tap'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 doth 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 bawdy Jiggs,
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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 pl[a]ces 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 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 falll to Drinking;
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O! 'ti[s] 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 tick'l'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 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, Cider, 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 our 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 fl[i]e 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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