“Ah,” sighed Lord Fawley, as he set down his empty vessel, “I could drink the King’s health forever.”
“I swear it would sweeten sour ale,” Bardon declared.
Young Ingrow took him up. “When it floats on such noble tipple I am a god-swilling nectar.” Halfman slapped his chest.
“Come, lads!” he cried; “when Cavaliers drink the King’s health they should sing the King’s song,” and in another moment his mellow voice was setting his friends a sturdy example. “Gallants of England,” he warbled:
“Gallants of England, shall not the King land
Safely in town to knock Parliament down?
Shall we not ever strive to endeavor
Glory to win for our King and our crown?
Shall not the Roundhead soon be confounded?
Sa, sa, sa, sa, boys, ha, ha, ha, ha, boys,
Then we’ll return home in triumph and joy.
Then we’ll be merry, drink sack and sherry,
And we will sing, boys, God save the King, boys,
Cast up our hats, and sing Vive le Roy.”