THE ROYALIST.
A song made in the Rebellion.
From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.
Stay, shut the gate!
T’other quart, boys, ’tis not so late
As you are thinking;
The stars which you see in the hemisphere be
Are but studs in your cheeks by good drinking;
The sun’s gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys,
To-morrow he’ll blush that he’s paler than we, boys;
Drink wine, give him water,
’Tis sack makes us the boys.
Fill up the glass,
To the next merry lad let it pass;
Come, away wi’t;
Let’s set foot to foot and but give our minds to’t,
’Tis heretical sir, that doth slay wit;
Then hang up good faces, let’s drink till our noses
Give’s freedom to speak what our fancy disposes,
Beneath whose protection now under the rose is.
Drink off your bowl,
’Twill enrich both your head and your soul with Canary;
For a carbuncled face saves a tedious race,
And the Indies about us we carry;
No Helicon like to the juice of good wine is,
For Phoebus had never had wit that divine is,
Had his face not been bow-dy’d as thine is and mine is.
This must go round,
Off with your hats till the pavement be crown’d with your beavers;
A red-coated face frights a sergeant and his mace,
Whilst the constables tremble to shivers.
In state march our faces like some of that quorum,
While the . . . do fall down and the vulgar adore ’um,
And our noses like link-boys run shining before ’um.