A longing lass, whose custard face

Her inward grief discloses,

With drinking wine, so sweet and fine,
Will gain a pair of roses :

It doth revive dead folks alive,

And helps their former weakness;

It is so pure, that it doth cure

A maiden of her sickness.

This Rhenish wine, &c.

The drawer still the same shall fill,
To elevate the heart, boys;
For Rhenish gay, you now must pay
Just twelve pence for a quart, boys.
Who would be ty'de to brewers side,
Whose measures do so vary,

When we may sit, to raise our wit,
With drinking of canary?

The purest wine, &c.

The French wine pure, for seven pence, sure,
You shall have choice and plenty,
At this same rate to drink in plate,
Which is both good and dainty:
A maunding cove that doth it love,

"Twill make him dance and caper, And Captain Puff will have enuff

To make him brag and vapor. The purest wine, so brisk and fine, The alligant and sherry,

I hold it good to purge the blood,

And make the senses merry.

And also we that do agree,

As one for boon good fellows, We'l sing and laugh, and stoutly quaff, And quite renounce the alehouse; For ale and beer are both now dear, The price is raised in either; Then let us all, both great and small, To th' tavern walk together.

The purest wine, &c.

The tradesmen may at any day,
For their own recreation,
Be welcome still to Ralph or Will,

And have accommodation;

For why, their coyn will buy the wine
And cause a running barrel;

But if you're drunk, your wits are sunk,
And gorrill'd guts will quarrel.
The purest wine, &c.

The cobler fast will stay the last,

For he's a lusty drinker;

He'l pawn

his soul to have a bowl,

To drink to Tom the tinker :

The broom man he will be as free,

To drink courageous flashes;
If cole grow scant, before he'l want,
He'l burn his brooms to ashes.

The purest wine, so brisk and fine,

The alligant and sherry,

I hold is best to give us rest,

Or make the senses merry.

The fidling crowd that grow so proud,
Will pawn their pipes and fiddles,
They'l strike and crack with bowls of sack,
And cut the queerest widdles;
They'l rant and tear like men of war,
Their voyces roar like thunder,
And growing curst their fiddles burst,
And break 'um all asunder.

The purest wine, &c.

The country blades with their own maids,
At every merry meeting,

For ale and cakes at their town wakes,
Which they did give their sweetings,
Upon their friend a crown will spend,
In sack that is so trusty ;
"Twill please a maid that is decay'd,
And make a booby lusty.

Be rul'd by me, and we'l agree

To drink both sack and sherry, For that is good to cleanse the blood, And make our senses merry.

XLI.

THE GOOD FELLOWS' FROLICK, OR KENT
STREET CLUB.

(Evans's Old Ballads, i, 162, and Songs of the London Apprentices and Trades, by Charles Mackay, Percy Society's Edition, pp. 134-7, and Roxburghe Ballads, British Museum, ii, 198-9.)

HERE is a crew of jovial blades,

That lov'd the nut-brown ale,
They in an alehouse chanc'd to meet,

And told a merry tale.

A bonny seaman was the first,

But newly come to town,

And swore that he his guts could burst,

With ale that was so brown.

See how the jolly carman he
Doth the strong liquor prize,
He so long in the alehouse sat,

That he drank out his eyes;
And groping to get out of door,
Sot-like, he tumbled down,

And there he like a madman swore
He lov'd the ale so brown.

The nimble weaver he came in,

And swore he'd have a little,

To drink good ale it was no sin,

Though 't made him pawn his shuttle.

Then next the blacksmith he came in,
And said, ""Twas mighty hot ;"
He sitting down did thus begin,
"Fair maid, bring me a pot;
Let it be of the very best,.

That none exceeds in town,
I tell you true, and do not jest,
I love the ale so brown."

The prick louse tailor he came in, Whose tongue did run so nimble, And said, he would engage for drink, His bodkin and his thimble.

"For though with long thin jaws I look, I value not a crown,

So I can have my belly full

Of ale that is so brown."

The lusty porter passing by,
With basket on his back,

He said, that he was grievous dry,
And needs would pawn his sack.
His angry wife he did not fear,
He valued not her frown,
So he had that he lov'd so dear,
I mean the ale so brown.