With a crust of brown bread, and a pot of good ale.
The Shepherd, the Sower, the Thresher, the Mower,
The one with his Scythe, the other with his Flaile,
Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my soll,
All will hold up their hands to a pot of good ale.
The Black-Smith, whose bellows all Summer do blow,
With the fire in his Face still, without e’re a vaile,
Though his throat be full dry, he will tell you no lye,
But where you may be sure of a pot of good ale.
Who ever denies it, the Pris’ners will prayse it,