A Song upon Ale.
I.
WHen the chill
Sirocco blows,
And Winter tells an heavy Tale,
When Daws, and Pyes, and Rooks and Crows
Sit cursing of the Frosts and Snows,
Then give me
Ale.
II.
Ale, in a
Northern Rumkin there,
Such as will make grim
Malkin prate,
Makes Valour bourgeon in tall Men,
Quickens the Poets Wit and Pen,
And laughs at Fate.
III.
Ale, which the Tinkers hammer steels,
And drums it on the clamorous brass,
Larrums the Countrey Town and Fields,
When
Madges kettles out at heels,
And torn poor Lass.
IV.
Ale, which the absent Battle fights,
And forms the march of warlike Drum,
Disputes of Princes, Laws and Rights,
What was, what is, tells Mortal Wights,
And what's to come.
V.
Ale, which the Beggars Heart up keeps,
And equals them to Tyrants Thrones,
Which wipes the Eye that over-weeps,
And lulls in sweet and gentle sleeps,
Our wearied bones.
VI.
Grand-child of
Ceres, Barley's Daughter,
Wine's emulous Sister, if but stale,
Ennobling all the Nymphs of Water,
Thine half Blood, Grandmother of Laughter,
Ah, give me
Ale▪
Licensed and Entred according to Order.
LONDON, Printed for P. W. 1689.