GOOD ALE.
I cannot eat but little meat,— My stomach is not good; But, sure, I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care; I nothing am a-cold,— I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead,— Much bread I not desire. No frost, nor snow, nor wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold,— I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side, etc.
And Tyb, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till you may see The tears run down her cheek; Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, Even as a malt-worm should; And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old." Back and side, etc.
Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, Or have them lustily trowled, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old! Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!
JOHN STILL.
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
A brace of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had ordered peas into their shoes: A nostrum famous in old popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: A sort of apostolic salt, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray; But very different was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners galloped on, Swift as a bullet from a gun; The other limped, as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried, Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever.