CHAPTER XI.

’Tis Ale, immortal Ale I sing! Bid all the Muses throng! Bid them awake each slumbering string, Till the loud chords responsive ring To swell the lofty song! _Brasenose College Shrovetide Poem._ These venerable ancient song inditers Soar’d many a pitch above our modern writers; Our numbers may be more refin’d than those, But what we’ve gained in verse we’ve lost in prose; Their words no shuffling double meaning knew, Their speech was homely, but their hearts were true. _Rowe._ _OLD BALLADS, SONGS AND VERSES RELATING TO ALE AND BEER._ Long ago, in the merry days when the chilling influence of Puritanism had not yet put an end to the majority of our sports and pastimes, and when anyone who had ventured to speak of a May-pole as a “Stinckyng Idoll” would most likely have been ducked in the nearest pond as a proper reward for his calumny, the lower orders of England were far more musical than at present; and there existed a great demand for ballads to be sung at village merry-makings, ale-house gatherings, and during the long winter evenings which would have been dull indeed without the cheering influence of song. {295} Of the quaint old ballads, written mostly in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a splendid collection was made by the Earl of Oxford (born in 1661), to whom we are also indebted for the Harleian MSS., now in the British Museum. These ballads are known as the _Roxburghe Collection_, and a selection of them is given in this chapter, together with facsimile reproductions of the curious woodcuts with which the originals are adorned.[62] [62] Most of the Roxburghe Ballads have been reprinted by the Ballad Society, and for the very scanty information we have been able to gather concerning them we are in a great measure indebted to the Editors of these reprints. Our illustrations have been taken in every case from the original ballads, and are, we believe, the only exact facsimile reproductions in existence. The most important ballad connected with the subject of ale and beer is _Sir John Barley-corne_, of which there are many versions. It seems very probable that the original is not in existence, for at a very early date songs bearing the same name, and containing in effect the same words, were known both in the North of England and in the West Country. In later editions of Sir John Barley-corne old printers seem to have frequently varied the text, and in recent times Burns has recast the verses of the old ballad. The version given below is the oldest in the _Roxburghe Collection_, and must have been written at some time previous to the reign of James I. To anyone who has perused these pages so far, the pretty allegory contained in the ballad will not require explanation, but it may be well to point out that Sir John is the grain of barley which the farmer, the maltster, the miller, and the brewer do their best to destroy. However, after having forced Sir John to go through the various processes of agriculture, malting, and brewing, a friend, Thomas Good-ale, comes to the poor fellow’s assistance with mickle might, and takes “their tongues away, their legs or else their sight.” The illustration is taken from a later version. SIR JOHN BARLEY-CORNE. A pleasant new Ballad to sing both even and morne Of the bloody Murther of Sir John Barley-corne. To the tune of _Shall I lye beyond thee_. {296} [Illustration] As I went through the North countrey, I heard a merry greeting, A pleasant toy and full of joy, two noblemen were meeting. And as they walkèd for to sport, upon a summer’s day, Then with another nobleman, they went to make a fray. Whose name was Sir John Barley-corne; he dwelt down in a dale; Who had a kinsman dwelt him nigh, they cal’d him Thomas Good-ale. Another namèd Richard Beere was ready at that time, Another worthy Knight was there, call’d Sir William White-wine. Some of them fought in a Blacke-Jack, some of them in a Can; But the chiefest in a blacke-pot, like a worthy alderman. {297} Sir Barly-corn fought in a Boule, who wonne the victorie; And made them all to fume and swear that Barly-corne should die. Some said Kill him some said Drown others wisht to hang him hie— For as many as follow Barly-corne, shall surely beggers die. Then with a plough they plow’d him up, and thus they did devise, To burie him quicke within the earth, and swore he should not rise. With harrowes strong they combèd him, and burst clods on his head, A joyful banquet then was made, when Barly-corne was dead. He rested still within the earth, till raine from skies did fall, Then he grew up in branches greene, which sore amaz’d them all. And so grew up till midsommer, which made them all afeard; For he was sprouted up on hie and got a goodly beard. Then he grew till S. James’s-tide, his countenance was wan, For he was growne unto his strength, and thus became a man. With hookes and sickles keene into the field they hide, They cut his legs off by the knees, and made him wounds full wide. {298} Thus bloodily they cut him downe, from place where he did stand, And like a thiefe for treachery, they bound him in a band. So then they tooke him up againe, according to his kind, And packt him up in severall stackes to wither with the wind. And with a pitchforke that was sharpe, they rent him to the heart; And like a thiefe for treason vile, they bound him in a cart. And tending him with weapons strong, unto the towne they hie, And straight they mowed him in a mow, and there they let him lie. Then he lay groning by the wals, till all his wounds were sore, At length they tooke him up againe, and cast him on the floore. They hyrèd two with holly clubs, to beat on him at once, They thwackèd so on Barly-corne that flesh fell from his bones. And then they tooke him up againe, to fulfill women’s minde, They dusted and they sifted him, till he was almost blind. And then they knit him in a sacke, which grievèd him full sore, They steep’d him in a Fat, God-wot, for three days space and more. {299} Then they took him up againe, and laid him for to drie, They cast him on a chamber floore, and swore that he should die. They rubbèd him and stirrèd him, and still they did him turne The malt-man swore that he should die, his body he would burne. They spightfully tooke him up againe and threw him on a Kill; So dried him there with fire hot, and thus they wrought their will. Then they brought him to the mill and there they burst his bones, The miller swore to murther him, betwixt a paire of stones. Then they tooke him up againe and serv’d him worse then that; For with hot scalding liquor store, they washt him in a Fat. But not content with this, God-wot, they did him mickle harme, With threatening words they promisèd, to beat him into barme. And lying in this danger deep, for feare that he should quarrell, They tooke him straight out of the fat and tunn’d him in a barrell. And then they set a tap to him, even thus his death begun, They drew out every dram of blood, whilst any drop would run. {300} Some brought jacks, upon their backes, some brought bill and bow, And every man his weapon had Barly-corne to overthrow. When Sir John Good-ale heard of this, he came with mickle might, And there he tooke their tongues away, their legs, or else their sight. And thus Sir John in each respect, so paid them all their hire, That some lay sleeping by the way, some tumbling in the mire. Some lay groning by the wals, some in the streets downe right, The best of them did scarcely know what they had done ore-night. All you good wives that brew good Ale, God turne from you all teene, But if you put too much water in the devill put out your eyne! “Printed for John Wright and are to be sold at his Shop in Guilt Spurre Street at the sign of the Bible.” Another version commences:— There were two brothers liv’d under yon hill, As it might be you and I; And one of them did solemnly swear That Sir John Barley-corn should die. Burns’ ballad commences:— There went three Kings into the East, Three Kings both great and high, And they have sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die, {301} and ends— Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand, And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland. Burns, no doubt, founded his ballad on the West Country _Sir John Barleycorn_, which, according to Robert Bell, in his annotated edition of ancient ballads, can set up a better claim to antiquity than any copy in the _Roxburghe Collection_. It commences thus:— There came three men out of the West Their victory to try; And they have taken solemn oath, Poor Barleycorn should die. This, by the way, reads like the origin of a teetotal movement. Printed on the same sheet as the _Sir John Barley-corne_ of the _Roxburghe Collection_ is another old ballad of probably the same date, the author of which is unknown. It has no illustration, and is entitled:— A new Ballad for you to looke on, How mault doth deale with everyone. * * * * * To the tune of _Triumph and Joy_. * * * * * Mas Mault he is a genleman, And hath beene since the world began, I never knew yet any man, That could match with Master Mault, Sir, I never knew any match Mault but once, The Miller with his grinding stones, He laid them so close that he crusht his bones; You never knew the like, Sir. Mault, Mault, thou art a flowre; Thou art beloved in every bowre, Thou canst not be missing one halfe howre; You never saw the like, Sir. For laying of his stones so close Mault gave the Miller a copper nose, Saying, Thou and I will never be foes, But unto thee I sticke, Sir. {302} Mault gave the miller such a blow, That from his horse he fell full low; He taught him his master Mault for to know; You never saw the like, Sir, Our hostesse maid she was to blame, She stole Master Mault away from her dame, And in her belly she hid the same, You never saw the like, Sir. So when the Mault did worke in her head, Twice a day she would be sped, At night she could not goe to bed, Nor scarce stand on her feet, Sir. Then came in the Master Smith, And said that Mault he was a thief; But Mault gave him such a dash in the teeth, You never saw the like, Sir. For when his iron was hot and red, He had such an ach all in his head, The Smith was faine to get him to bed, For then he was very Sicke, Sir. The carpender came a peece to square, He bad Mault come out if he dare, He would empty his belly and beat his sides bare, That he knew not where to sit, Sir. To fire he went, with an arme full of chips, Mault hit him right betweene his lips, And made him lame in both his hips; You never saw the like, Sir. The shooe-maker sitting upon his seat, With Master Mault he began to fret, He said he would the Knave so beat, You never saw the like, Sir. The writer, in a number of verses, then shows how “Mas Mault” deals with the shoemaker, the weaver, the tailor, the tinker, and the sailor, including the chapman, a person of interest to us as the retailer of such ballads as these. Then came the Chapman travelling by, And said, ‘my Masters I will be w’ ye, {303} Indeed, Master Mault, my mouth is dry, I will gnaw you with my teeth, Sir. The chapman he laid on apace, Till store of blood came in his face, But Mault brought him in such a case, You never saw the like, Sir. Several other persons are then dealt with, and the ballad ends with the lines:— Thus of my song I will make an end And pray my hostesse to be my friend, To give me some drink now my money is spend, Then Mault and I am quite, Sir. The tune to which this ballad is to be sung is probably the same as the old air _Greene Sleeves_. A song near akin to the foregoing, also showing the effects of barley wine, is _The Little Barley Corn_. It is evidently of the time of Charles I., from the allusions it contains to the King’s great Porter, and to Banks, whose performing horse is mentioned. THE LITTLE BARLEY-CORN. * * * * * Whose properties and vertues here Shall plainly to the world appeare; To make you merry all the yeere. To the tune of _Stingo_. [Illustration] {304} Come, and doe not musing stand, if thou the truth discerne; But take a full cup in thy hand and thus begin to learne, Not of the earth nor of the ayre, at evening or at morne,— But joviall boys your Christmas keep _with the Little Barley-corn_. It is the cunningst alchymist that e’re was in the land; ’Twill change your mettle when it list, in turning of a hand. Your blushing gold to silver wan, your silver into brasse,— ’Twill turn a taylor to a man, _and a man into an asse_. ’Twill make a poore man rich to hang a sign before his doore; And those that doe the pitcher bang, though rich, ’twill make them poor, ’Twill make the silliest poorest snake the King’s great Porter scorne; ’Twill make the stoutest lubber weak, _this little Barley-Corn_. It hath more shifts than Lambe ere had, or _Hocus-pocus_ too; It will good fellowes shew more sport then _Bankes_ his horse could doe; ’Twill play you faire above the boord, unlesse you take good heed, And fell you, though you were a Lord, _and justify the deed_. It lends more yeeres unto old age, than ere was lent by nature; It makes the poet’s fancy rage, more than Castalian water. {305} ’Twill make a huntsman chase a fox, and never winde his horne; ’Twill cheer a tinker in the stockes, _this little barley-corn_. It is the only Will o’ th’ Wisp which leades men from the way; ’Twill make the tongue-ti’d lawyer lisp, and nought but (hic up) say. ’Twill make the Steward droope and stoop, his bils he then will scorne, And at each post cast his reckoning up, _this little barley-corn_. ’Twill make a man grow jealous soone, whose pretty wife goes trim, And raile at the deceiving moone for making hornes at him: ’Twill make the maidens trimly dance, and take it in no scorne, And helpe them to a friend by chance, _this little barley-corn_. It is the neatest serving-man, to entertaine a friend; It will doe more than money can all jarring suits to end: There’s life in it, and it is here, ’tis here within this cup; Then take your liquor, doe not spare, _but cleare carouse it up_. To this ballad there is a second part to much the same effect. We give the illustration and a few verses. Both parts are in the _Roxburghe Collection_. The Second Part of the Little Barley-corne That cheereth the heart both evening and morne. _To the same tune._ {306} [Illustration] If sicknesse come, this physick take, it from your heart will set it; If feare incroach, take more of it, your head will soone forget it; Apollo, and the Muses nine, doe take it in no scorne; There’s no such stuffe to passe the time _as the little Barley-corne_. ’Twill make a weeping widdow laugh and soone incline to pleasure; ’Twill make an old man leave his staffe and dance a youthful measure: And though your clothes be nere so bad all ragged rent and torne, Against the cold you may be clad _with the little Barley-corne_. * * * * * Thus the Barley-Corne hath power even for to change our nature, And make a shrew, within an houre, prove a kind-hearted creature: And therefore here, I say againe, let no man tak’t in scorne, That I the vertues doe proclaime _of the little Barley-corne_.” Printed at London for E. B. The following song in praise of ale is taken from _London Chanticleers_, a rude sketch of a play printed in 1659, but evidently much older. The {307} reference to being “without hops” in the verse vii. is noticeable. It will be remembered that the ale which our forefathers drank was made without hops, which “pernicious weeds” were only used in the “Dutchman’s strong beere.” I. Submit, Bunch of Grapes, To the strong Barley ear; The weak wine no longer The laurel shall wear. II. Sack, and all drinks else, Desist from the strife: Ale’s the only Aqua Vitæ, And liquor of life. III. Then come my boon fellows, Let’s drink it around; It keeps us from grave, Though it lays us on ground. IIII. Ale’s a Physician, No Mountebank Bragger: Can cure the chill Ague, Though it be with the Stagger. V. Ale’s a strong Wrestler, Flings all it hath met; And makes the ground slippery, Though it be not wet. VI. Ale is both Ceres And good Neptune too; Ale’s froth was the sea, From which Venus grew. VII. Ale is immortal: And be there no stops In bonny lad’s quaffing, Can live without hops. {308} VIII. Then come my boon fellows, Let’s drink it around: It keeps us from grave, Though it lays us on ground. The ballad entitled the _Merry Hoastess_ is probably of an earlier date than 1664. It bears the initials T. R., and was, perhaps, composed by Thomas Randal. The tune to which it was sung is a capital one, and is to be found in Mr. William Chappell’s _Popular Music_. This ballad is in the first volume of the _Roxburghe Collection_. THE MERRY HOASTESS or A pretty new Ditty, compos’d by an Hoastess that lives in the City, To wrong such an Hoastess it were a great Pitty, By reason she caused this pretty new Ditty. To the tune of _Buffcoat has no fellow_. [Illustration] {309} Come all that loves good company, and hearken to my ditty, ’Tis of a lovely Hoastess fine, that lives in London City; Which sells good ale, nappy and stale, and alwayes thus sings she, My ale was tunn’d, when I was young, and a little above my knee. Her ale is lively, strong and stout, if you please but to taste; It is well brew’d you need not fear, but I pray you make no waste: It is lovely brown, the best in town, and alwayes thus sings she, My ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. The gayest lady with her fan, doth love such nappy ale, Both city maids and country girls that carries the milking pail: Will take a touch and not think much to sing so merrily, My ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. Both lord and esquire hath a desire unto it night and day, For a quart or two be it old or new, and for it they will pay, With pipe in hand, they may her command to sing most merrily, My ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. You’r welcome all brave gentlemen, if you please to come in, To take a cup I do intend, and a health for to begin: To all the merry joval blades, that will sing for company, My ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. {310} Here’s a health to all brave Englishmen, that loves this cup of ale; Let every man fill up his can, and see that none do fail; ’Tis very good to nourish the blood, and make you sing with me, My ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. SECOND PART. [Illustration] The bonny Scot will lay a plot to get a handsome tutch Of this my ale, so good and stale, so will the cunning Dutch: They will take a part with all their heart, to sing this tune with me, My ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. It will make the Irish cry A-hone! if they but take their fill, And put them all quite out of tune let them use their chiefest skill. {311} So strong and stout it will hold out in any company, For my ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. The Welchman on St. David’s day will cry, Cots plutter a nail, Hur will hur ferry quite away, from off that nappy ale; It makes hur foes with hur red nose, hur seldom can agree, But my ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. The Spaniard stout will have a bout, ’cause he hath store of gold, Till at the last, he is laid fast, my ale doth him so hold: His ponyard strong is laid along, yet he is good company, For my ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. There’s never a tradesman in England, that can my ale deny, The weaver, taylor and glover delights it for to buy, Small money they do take away, if that they drink with me, For my ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. There is Smug the honest Blacksmith, he seldom can pass be, Because a spark lies in his throat which makes him very dry: But my old ale tells him his tale, so finely we agree, For my ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. The brewer, baker and butcher, as well as all the rest, {312} Both night and day will watch where they may find ale of the best: And the gentle craft will come full oft, to drink a cup with me, For my ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. So to conclude good fellows all, I bid you all adieu, If that you love a cup of ale, take rather old than new, For if you come where I do dwell, and chance to drink with me, My ale was tunn’d when I was young, and a little above my knee. The following poem in praise of Yorkshire Ale was written in the seventeenth century. The author is given on the title page as “G. M. Gent.” The little volume, somewhat rare nowadays, was printed at York in 1697, by F. White, for Francis Hildyard, at the sign of the Bible in Stone Gate. THE PRAISE OF YORKSHIRE ALE Wherein is enumerated several sorts of Drink, and a Description of the Humors of most sorts of Drunkards. To Which is added, a Yorkshire Dialogue, in its pure natural Dialect, as it is now commonly spoken in the North parts of Yorkshire. Bacchus having called a Parliament of late, For to consult about some things of state, Nearly concerning the honour of his Court To the Sun, behind th’ Exchange, they did resort: Where being met, and many things that time Concerning the Adulterating Wine, And other liquors; selling of Ale in Muggs, Silver Tankards, Black-Pots, and little Jugs: Stronge Beer in Rabits, and cheating penny cans, Three pipes for two pence and such like Trepans: Vintners’ small bottles, silver-mouthed black Jacks, {313} * * * * * And many other things were there debated, And Bills passed upon the cases stated; And all things ready for Adjournment, then Stood up one of the Northern countrymen, A boon good fellow, and lover of strong Ale, Whose tongue well steep’d in Sack begun this Tale. “My bully Rocks, I’ve been experienced long In most of liquors, which are counted strong; Of Claret, White-wine and Canary Sack, Renish and Malago, I’ve had no lack, Sider, Perry, Metheglin, and Sherbet, Coffee and Mead, with Punch and Chocolet: Rum and Tea, Azora wine, Mederry, Vin-de-Paree, Brag, wine with Rosemary: Stepony, Usquebath, besides all these, Aqua Cœlestis Cinnamon, Heart’s ease; Brave Rosa Solis, and other Liquors fine, Rasberry Wine, Pur-royal, and Shampine, Malmsey and Viper-wine, all these I pass; Frontineack; with excellent Ipocras: * * * * * “Tent, Muskatine, Brandy and Alicant Of all these liquors I’ve had no scant, And several others; but none do I find, Like humming Northern Ale to pleas my mind, It’s pleasant to the taste, strong and mellow, He that affects it not, is no boon fellow. * * * * * “It warms in winter, in summer opes the pores, ’Twill make a Sovereign Salve ’gainst cuts and sores; It ripens wit, exhillerates the mind, Makes friends of foes, and foes of friends full kind; It’s physical for old men, warms their blood, Its spirits makes the Coward’s courage good: The tatter’d Beggar being warmed with Ale, Nor rain, hail, frost, nor snow can him assail, He’s a good man with him can then compare, It makes a Prentise great as the Lord Mayor; The Labouring man, that toiles all day full sore, A pot of ale at night, doth him restore, {314} And makes him all his toil and paines forget, And for another day’s work, hee’s then fit. * * * * * “Oh the rare virtues of this Barly Broth; To rich and poor it’s Meat Drink and Cloth.” The Court here stopt him, and the Prince did say, “Where can we find this Nectar, I thee pray,” The boon good fellow answered, “I can tell, North Allerton in Yorkshire doth excell All England, nay all Europe for strong Ale, If thither we adjourn we shall not fail To taste such humming stuff, as, I dare say, Your Highness never tasted to this day.” Bacchus’ Court then adjourns to North Allerton, and imbibes the noble ale kept at Madame Bradley’s, with this result:— For arguments some were and learned discourses, Som talk’d of greyhounds, som of running horses, Som talk’d of hounds, and some of Cock o’ th game, Som nought but hawks, and setting dogs did name, Som talk’d of Battels, Sieges and great wars, And what great Wounds and cutts they had and scars, * * * * * Some there were all for drinking healths about, Others did rub the table with their Snout * * * * * Some broke the pipes, and round about them threw, Some smoak’d tobacco till their nose was blew. Some called for victuals others for a crust, Some op’d their Buttons and were like to bust, Som challeng’d all the people that were there And some with strange invented oaths did sweer, * * * * * Some fill’d the room with noise yet could not speak, One word of English, Latine, French and Greek * * * * * Some burnt their Hats, others the Windowes broke, Some cry’d more liquor we are like to choke, * * * * * {315} Lame gouty men did dance about so sprightly, A boy of fifteen scarce could skip so lightly, Old crampy Capts. that scarce a sword could draw, Swore now they’d keep the King of France in awe, And new commissions get to raise more men, For now they swore they were grown young again; Off went their Perriwigs, Coats and Rapers, Out went the candles, Noses for Tapers Serv’d to give light, while they did daunce around, Drinking full healthes with caps upon the ground: * * * * * This moved Bacchus presently to call For a great jug which held about five quarts, And filling to the Brim; come here my hearts Said he, wee’l drink about this merry health, To th’ honour of the Town, their state, their wealth, * * * * * And for the sake of this good nappy ale, Of my great favour it shall never fail, Bacchus and his party having once tasted the ale, drink all the casks out— then out they pull’d the Taps And stuck the Spiddocks finely in their hats, The Court then adjourns to Easingwold— With Nanny Driffield there to drink a glass For Bacchus having heard of her strong ale, He swore by Jupiter, he would not fail To have a merry bout if he did find Her nappy ale to please his princely Mind; Bacchus is so delighted with the ale that he grants her letters patent. Bacchus Prince of good fellows; To all to whom These our brave letters Pattents shall now come, Whereas wee’ve been informed now of late, That Nanny Driffield our great court and state For many years last past has much advanced By her strong humming ale. . . . * * * * * {316} This land-lady unto the noble state, And honour of a countess we create; And by our merry fuddling subjects, she Countess of Stingo henceforth call’d shall be. Some townsmen then come in, and a contest is arranged between the ale-drinkers and the wine-drinkers, in which the latter are of course worsted. 1 Colonus and Bacchus did meet Each one to commend his own liquor; The Juice of the Grape was sweet; But Barly Oyle ran down the quicker; Colonus did challenge the Gods, To fight in defence of his Barley, But Bacchus perceiving the odds, Desir’d a friendly parley. 2 They drunk full Bumpers about, And Bacchus an health did begin, The Bacchanalians gave a great shout, The Colonians then thronged fast in: They drunk double Tankards around, Till the Grape Boyes begun for to glore, The Rusticks neer flinch’d their ground, Till Bacchus fell down to the Floor. 3 Colonus did heartily laugh, And about the God they did daunce, Full pots about they did quaff: Whilest Bacchus lay still in a Trance; The grape boyes were beat out of play, And at length poor Bacchus did rise; To Colonus he yielded the day, So the Rusticks obtainèd the Prize. Bacchus, on coming to, adjourns his court to York, where they again taste— Both from North Allerton and Easingwold, From Sutton, Thirke, likewise from Rascal Town, . . . Ale also that’s called Knocker-down— * * * * * {317} They tasted all; And swore they were full glad, Such Stingoe, Nappy, pure ale they had found, Let’s loose no time said they but drink around. The Yorkshire Ale, however, proves too strong for Bacchus and his Court, and a final adjournment South is made, though— Bacchus swore to come he would not fail To glut himself with Yorkshire nappy ale. It is so pleasant, mellow too and fine, That Bacchus swore hee’d never more drink wine. Those who wish to peruse the “Yorkshire Dialogue in its pure natural Dialect” are referred to the British Museum. In the _Roxburghe Collection_ are nineteen ballads by Lawrence Price, a celebrated writer of the time of Charles I. He wrote chap-books, riddles, and political squibs in rhyme. The following rollicking drinking song is from his pen. Only one copy of it is known to be in existence. GOOD ALE FOR MY MONEY. The Good-fellowes resolution of strong Ale, That cures his nose from looking pale. To the tune of _The Countrey Lasse_. [Illustration] {318} Be merry my friends, and list a while unto a merry jest, It may from you produce a smile when you hear it exprest, Of a younge man lately married, which was a boone good fellow, This song in ’s head he alwaies carried, when drinke had made him mellow, I cannot go home, nor I will not go home its long of the oyle of Barly; Ile tarry all night for my delight, and go home in the morning early. No tapster stout, or Vintner fine quoth he shall euer get One groat out of this purse of mine to pay his master’s debt: Why should I deal with sharking Rookes, that seeke poore gulls to cozen, To giue twelue pence for a quart of wine, of ale ’twill buy a dozen. ’Twill make me sing, I cannot, &c. The old renowned Ipocrist and Raspie doth excell, But neuer any wine could yet my honour please to swell, The Rhenish wine or Muskadine, sweet Malmsie is too fulsome No giue me a cup of Barlie broth, for that is very wholesome, ’Twill make me sing, I cannot, &c. Hot waters ar to me as death, and soone the head oreturneth, And Nectar hath so strong a breath Canary when it burneth, It cures no paine but breaks the braine, and raps out oaths and curses, And makes men part with heauiy heart, but light it makes their purses, I cannot go home, &c. {319} Some say Metheglin beares the name, with Perry and sweet Sider, ’Twill bring the body out of frame, and reach the belly wider Which to preuent I am content with ale that’s good and nappie, And when thereof I haue enough I thinke myself most happy. I cannot go home, &c. All sorts of men when they do meet both trade and occupation, With curtesie each other greet, and kinde humiliation; A good coale fire is their desire, whereby to sit and parly Theyle drink their ale and tell a tale, and go home in the morning early. I cannot go home, &c. Your domineering swaggering blades, and caualiers that flashes, That throw the Jugs against the walls and break in peeces glasses When Bacchus round cannot be found they will in merriment Drinke ale and beere and cast of care and sing with one consent I cannot goe home, &c. The title-page of the following poem tells its history:— THE HIGH AND MIGHTIE COMMENDATION OF THE VERTUE OF A POT OF GOOD ALE. * * * * * Full of wit without offence, of mirth without obscenities, of pleasure without scurrelitie and of good content without distaste * * * * * {320} Whereunto is added the valiant battell fought betweene the Norfolk Cock and the Wisbich Cock. * * * * * [Illustration Written by Thomas Randall. London: Printed for F. Cowles; T. Bates; and J. Wright. MDCXLII ] THE HIGH AND MIGHTIE COMMENDATION OF THE VERTUE OF A POT OF GOOD ALE. Not drunk nor sober, (but neighbour to both,) I met with a friend in Alesberry vale; He saw by my face, that I was in the case, To speak no great harm of a Pot of Good Ale. And as we did meet, and friendly did greet, He put me in mind of the name of the Dale, That for _Alesberries_ sake, some paines I would take, And not burie the praise of a Pot of Good Ale. The more to procure me, then did he adjure me, (If the _ale_ I drank last, were nappie and stale,) To doe it its right, and stir up my spright, And fall to commend a Pot of Good Ale. {321} Quoth I, to commend it, I dare not begin, Lest therein my cunning might happen to faile, For many there be that count it a sin, But once to look towards a Pot of Good Ale. Yet I care not a pin, for I see no such sin, Nor any else that my courage may quaile, For this I do find, being taken in kind, Much vertue there is in a Pot of Good Ale. When heavinesse the mind doth oppresse, And sorrow and griefe the heart doth assaile, No remedy quicker but take up your liquour, And wash away care with a Pot of Good Ale. The Priest and the Clark, whose sights are dark, And the print of the letter doth seeme too small, They will con every letter, and read service better, If they glaze but their eyes with a Pot of Good Ale. The Poet divine, that cannot reach wine, Because that his money doth oftentimes faile, Will hit on the veine, and reach the high straine, If he be but inspired with a Pot of Good Ale. All writers of Ballads, for such whose mishap From Newgate up Holbourne to Tyburne doe saile, Shall have sudden expression of all their confession, If the Muse be but dew’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The Prisoner that is enclos’d in the grate, Will shake off remembrance of bondage and jaile, Of hunger or cold, or fetters or fate, If he pickle himself with a Pot of Good Ale. The Salamander Blacksmith that lives by the fire, While his Bellowes are puffing a blustring gale, Will shake off his full Kan, and sweare each true Vulcan, Will Hazzard his witts for a Pot of Good Ale. {322} The woer that feareth his suit to begin, And blushes, and simpers, and often looks pale, Thogh he miss in his speech and his heart were at his breech, If he liquors his tongue: with a Pot of Good Ale. The Widdow, that buried her husband of late, Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile; And think every day twaine, till she marry againe, If she read the contents of a Pot of Good Ale. The Plowman and Carter that toyles all the day, And tires himself quite at the Plough-taile, Will speak no lesse things, than of Queens and Kings, If he do but make bold with a Pot of Good Ale. And indeed it will make a man suddenly wise, Ere while was scarce able to tell a right tale, It will open his Jaw, he will tell you the Law, And straight be a Bencher with a Pot of Good Ale. I doe further alledge, it is fortitudes edge, For a very Coward that shrinks like a Snaile, Will sweare and will swagger, and out goes his Dagger, If he be but well arm’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The naked man taketh no care for a coat, Nor on the cold weather will once turne his taile, All the way as he goes, cut the wind with his nose, If he be but well lin’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The hungrie man seldome can mind his meat, (Though his Stomach could brook a Ten Penny Nail,) He quite forgets hunger, thinks of it no longer, If his guts be but sows’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The Reaper, the Mower, the Thresher, the Sower, The one with his Sithe, and the other with his flaille, Pull ’em out by the pole, on the perill of my sole, They will hold up their caps at a Pot of Good Ale. {323} The Beggar, whose portion is alwayes his Prayer, Not having a tatter, to hang at his taille, Is as rich in his rags, as a Churle with his bags, If he be but entic’d with a Pot of Good Ale. It puts his povertie out of his mind, Forgetting his browne bread, his wallet, his maile, He walks in the house like a six footed Lowse, If he be but well drench’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The Souldier, the Saylor, the true man, the Taylor, The Lawyer that sels words by weight and by tale, Take them all as they are, for the War or the Bar, They all will approve of a Pot of Good Ale. The Church and Religion to love it hath cause, (Or else our Fore-fathers, their wisdomes did faile,) For at every mile, close at the Church stile, An house is ordain’d for a Pot of Good Ale. And Physick will flavour _Ale_ (as it is bound) And stand against Beere both tooth and naile, They send up and downe, all over the towne, To get for their Patients a Pot of Good Ale. Your Ale-berries, Cawdles, and Possets each one, And sullabubs made at the milking pale, Although they be many, Beere comes not in any, But all are compos’d with a Pot of Good Ale. And in very deed, the Hop’s but a weed, Brought o’re ’gainst law, and here set to sale; He that first brought the Hop, had reward with a rope, And found that his Beere was bitter than ale. The antient tales that my Grannam hath told, Of the mirth she had in Parlour and Hall, How in Christmas time, they would dance, sing, and rime, As if they were mad, with a Pot of Good Ale. {324} Beere is a stranger, a Dutch Upstart come, Whose credit with us, sometimes is but small; But in the records of the Empire of Rome, The old Catholic drink is a Pot of Good Ale. To the praise of Gambinius, the old British King, Who devised for his nation (by the Welshmen’s tale), Seventeene hundred years before Christ did spring, The happie invention of a Pot of Good Ale. But he was a Pagan, and Ale then was rife, But after Christ came, and bade us, _All haile, Saint Tavie was neffer trink peere in her life, Put awle Callywhiblin_, and excellent Ale. All religions and nations, their humours and fashions Rich or poore, knave or whoore, dwarfish or tall Sheep or shrew, Ile avow, well I know will all bow, If they be but wel steep’d, with a Pot of Good Ale. O Ale, _ab alendo_, thou liquor of life, I wish that my mouth were as big as a Whale, But then ’twere to little, to reach thy least title, That belongs to the Praise of a Pot of Good Ale. Thus many a vertue to you I have showed, And not any vice in all this long tale, But after the Pot, there commeth a shot, And that is the Blot of a Pot of Good Ale. Well, said my friend, the blot I will beare, You have done very well, it is time to strike saile, We’ll have six Pots more, though we dye on the score, To make all _this good_ of a Pot of Good Ale. We may be pardoned for omitting “the valiant battell fought between the Norfolk Cock and the Wisbich Cock.” Returning again to the _Roxburghe Collection_. _A Health to all Good Fellowes_ is a very quaint old drinking song, having beneath its title a wood-cut no less quaint than the letterpress. It was printed about the commencement of the seventeenth century, for Henry Gossen. The author is unknown; possibly he was Martin Parker or Lawrence Price. {325} No copy beyond that in the _Roxburghe Collection_ is known to be in existence. The tune is a good one. A HEALTH TO ALL GOOD-FELLOWES: or, The good Companions Arithmeticke. To the tune of _To drive cold Winter away_. [Illustration] Be merry my hearts, and call for your quarts, and let no liquor go lacking, We have gold in store, we purpose to roar until we set care a packing. Then Hostis make haste, and let no time waste, let every man have his due, To save shooes and trouble, bring in the pots double for he that made one, made two.[63] * * * * * Then while we are here, wee’le drinke Ale and Beer, and freely our money wee’le spend, Let no man take care for paying his share, if need be Ile pay for my friend, Then Hostesse make haste, and let no time waste; you’re welcome all kind Gentlemen; {326} Never feare to carowse, while there is beere in the house, for he that made nine made ten. * * * * * Now I thinke it is fit, and most requisit, to drinke a health to our wives, The which being done, wee’le pay and be gone, strong drinke all our wits now deprives: Then Hostesse lets know, the summe that we owe, twelve pence there is for certaine, Then fill t’other pot, and here’s money for’t, for he that made twelve made thirteen.” The poet was probably at a loss for a word to rhyme with fourteen, or the ballad would have been longer. [63] The “he that made” is probably the brewer. The numbers increase by ones in the last line of each verse, the last verse reaching thirteen. Another song of much the same character is _Monday’s Work_, the work being no work at all, but a day spent at the alehouse. The only known copy of this ballad is in the _Roxburghe Collection_. The author is unknown. MONDAYS WORK or The Two honest neighbours both birds of a feather Who are at the Alehouse both merry together. To the tune of _I owe my Hostesse Money_. [Illustration] {327} Good morow neighbour Gamble Come let you and I goe ramble, Last night I was shot, Through the braines with a pot and now my stomach doth wamble; Your Possets and your Caudles, Are fit for babies in Cradles; A piece of salt Hogge, And a haire of the old Dogge is good to cure our drunken Noddles. Come hither mine host, come hither, Here’s two birds of a feather, Come hither my host With a pot and a tost, and let us be merry together. I rose in the morning early, To take this juice of barly, But if my wife Jone, Knew where I were gone, shee’d call me to a Parley. My bones I do not fauour, But honestly doe labour: But when I am out I must make a mad bout come here’s halfe a pot to thee neighbour. Come hither, &c. Gramarcy, neighbour Jinkin, I see thou louest no shrinking, And I for my part From thee will not start, come fill us a little more drinke in. I’th weeke we aske but one day, And that’s next after Sunday Our custome wee’le hold Although our Wiues scold the Maultman comes a Monday. Come hither, &c. Come let us haue our Liquor about us Mine host does not misdoubt us, {328} Yet if we should call, And pay none at all, you were better be without us: But we are no such fellowes, Though some in clothes excell us And yet haue no coyne For Liquor to joyne yet we haue both whites and yellowes. Come hither, &c. * * * * * There is a second part to this song, which ends with the words:— Now lest our wiues should find us ’Tis fit we should look behind us Let’s see what is done Then pay and begone, as honesty hath assigned us. ’Tis strong ale I conceiue it ’Tis good in time to leaue it Or else it will make Our foreheads to ake, ’tis vanity to outbraue it. Come hither, &c. Coming now to works of a later date, the following comicality seems worthy of reproduction. It is hardly necessary to point out that the verses are a smart hit upon female ale-bibbers. They are attributed to Samuel Bishop, M.A., rector of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook (1783). “A worthy man and generally beloved,” says Dr. Hughson, LL.D., in his _London_. QUOD PETIS HIC EST. No plate had John and Joan to hoard, Plain folks in humble plight; One only tankard crown’d the board, And that was filled each night. Along whose inner bottom sketched In pride of chubby grace, Some rude engravers hand had etch’d A babys angels face, John swallowed first a moderate sup; But Joan was not like John; {329} For when her lips once touched the cup, She swill’d till all was gone. John often urged her to drink fair, But she ne’er changed a jot; She loved to see that angel there, And therefore drain’d the pot. When John found all remonstrance vain, Another card he play’d; And where the angel stood so plain, He got a devil pourtrayed. John saw the horns, Joan saw the tail, Yet Joan as stoutly quaffed; And ever when she seized her ale She cleared it at a draught. John star’d with wonder petrify’d, His hairs rose on his pate; “And Why dose guzzle now?” he cryd, “At this enormous rate?” “Oh, John,” says she, “am I to blame, I can’t in conscience stop; For sure ’twould be a burning shame To leave the devil a drop.” A collection of ale ballads and songs would hardly be complete without at least one on the “guid yill of Scotland.” Burns’ works are so well known that we fall back upon a capital Scotch song written at the close of the last century, and bearing the title _A Coggie O’ Yill_. The author was Andrew Sheriffs of Shirrefs, at one time Editor of the _Aberdeen Chronicle_. He also wrote a Scotch pastoral entitled _Jamie and Bess_, which was published in 1787, and a second time in 1790. Burns, in his Third _Northern Tour_, speaks of Sheriffs, who was a bookbinder by trade, as “a little decrepit body with some abilities.” The words of the song were set to music by a celebrated violin player, named Robert Macintosh. A COGGIE O’ YILL. A Coggie o’ Yill, And a pickle aitmeal, And a dainty wee drappie o’ whiskey, Was our forefathers dose, For to sweel down their brose And keep them aye cheery and friskey— {330} Then hey for the wiskey, and hey for the meal, And hey for the Cogie, and hey for the yill, Gin ye steer a’ thegither they’ll do unco weel, To keep a chiel cherry and brisk aye. When I see our Scots lads, Wi’ their kilts and cockauds, That sae often ha’e loundered our foes, man: I think to mysel’, On the meal and the yill, And the fruits o’ our Scottish Kail brose, man. Then hey, &c., &c. * * * * * Then our brave Highland blades, Wi’ their claymore and plaids, In the field drive like sheep a’ our foes, man: Their courage and pow’r— Spring from this to be sure, They’re the noble effects o’ the brose, man. Then hey, &c., &c. But your spyndle-shank’d sparks Wha sae ill fill their sarks, Your pale-visaged milksops and beaux, man: I think when I see them, ’Twere kindness to gie them— A cogie o’ yill or o’ brose, man. Then hey, &c., &c. What John Bull despises, Our better sense prizes, He denies eatin’ blanter ava, man; But by eatin o’ blanter, His mare’s grown, I’ll warrant her, The manliest brute o’ the twa, man. Then hey, &c., &c. It would not be difficult to fill a volume of considerable size with songs and ballads having ale or beer for their subject, but the foregoing, together with many others to be found in these pages, are among the best of their kind, and will doubtless give a fair idea of the poetry of malt liquor. {331} [Illustration]