At each inn on the road I a welcome could find:—
At the Fleece I’d my skin full of ale;
The Two Jolly Brewers were just to my mind;
At the Dolphin I drank like a whale.
Tom Tun at the Hogshead sold pretty good stuff;
They’d capital flip at the Boar;
And when at the Angel I’d tippled enough,
I went to the Devil for more.
Then I’d always a sweetheart so snug at the Car;
At the Rose I’d a lily so white;
Few planets could equal sweet Nan at the Star,
No eyes ever twinkled so bright.
I’ve had many a hug at the sign of the Bear;
In the Sun courted morning and noon;
And when night put an end to my happiness there,
I’d a sweet little girl in the Moon.
To sweethearts and ale I at length bid adieu,
Of wedlock to set up the sign:
Hand-in-hand the Good Woman I look for in you,
And the Horns I hope ne’er will be mine.
Once guard to the mail, I’m now guard to the fair;
But though my commission’s laid down,
Yet while the King’s Arms I’m permitted to bear,
Like a Lion I’ll fight for the Crown.”
This was written in the beginning of the century, when eighteen hundred was still in her teens. A considerable falling off may be observed in the following, contributed by a correspondent of William Hone:—
“SIGNS OF LOVE AT OXFORD.
By an Inn-consolable Lover.
She’s as light as The Greyhound, as fair as The Angel,
Her looks than The Mitre more sanctified are;
But she flies like The Roebuck, and leaves me to range ill,
Still looking to her as my true polar Star.
New Inn-ventions I try, with new art to adore,
But my fate is, alas, to be voted a Boar;
My Goats I forsook to contemplate her charms,
And must own she is fit for our noble King’s Arms;
Now Cross’d, and now Jockey’d, now sad, now elate,
The Checquers appear but a map of my fate;
I blush’d like a Blue Cur, to send her a Pheasant,
But she call’d me a Turk, and rejected my present;
So I moped to The Barley Mow, grieved in my mind,
That The Ark from the Flood ever rescued mankind!
In my dreams Lions roar, and The Green Dragon grins,
And fiends rise in shape of The Seven Deadly Sins,
When I ogle The Bells, should I see her approach,
I skip like a Nag and jump into The Coach.
She is crimson and white like a Shoulder of Mutton,
Not the red of The Ox was so bright when first put on;
Like The Holly-bush prickles she scratches my liver,
While I moan and die like a Swan by the river.”
But tame as this last performance is, it is “merry as a brass band” when compared with a ballad sung in the streets some twenty years later, entitled, “Laughable and Interesting Picture of Drunkenness.” Speaking of the publicans, who call themselves “Lords,” it says:—
“If these be the Lords, there are many kinds,
For over their doors you will see many signs;
There is The King, and likewise The Crown,
And beggars are made in every town.
There is The Queen, and likewise her Head,
And many I fear to the gallows are led;
There is The Angel, and also The Deer,
Destroying health in every sphere.
There is The Lamb, likewise The Fleece,
And the fruit’s bad throughout the whole piece;
There is The White Hart, also The Cross Keys,
And many they’ve sent far over the seas.
There is The Bull, and likewise his Head.
His Horns are so strong, they will gore you quite dead;
[34] There’s The Hare and Hounds that never did run,
And many’s been hung for the deeds they’ve done.