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Thus did this dire contention end ;

And each man of the slain Were quickly carried off to bed,

Their senses to regain.

God bless the king, the duchess fat,

And keep the land in peace ; And grant that drunkenness henceforth

'Mong noblemen may cease.

And likewise bless our royal prince,

The nation's other hope ; And give us grace for to defy

The Devil and the Pope.

SONG XLVI.

COME, come, my hearts of gold,

Let us be merry and wise, It is a proverb of old,

Suspicion has double eyes : Whatever we say or do,

Let's not drink to disturb the brain, Let's laugh for an hour or two,

And ne'er be drunk again.

A cup of old sack is good,

To drive the cold winter away ; 'Twill cherish and comfort the blood

Most when a man's spirits decay :

But he that drinks too much,

Of his head he will complain ; Then let's have a gentle touch,

And ne'er be drunk again.

Good claret was made for man,

But man was not made for it ; Let's be merry as we can,

So we drink not away our wit : Good fellowship is abus'd,

And wine will infect the brain; But we'll have it better us’d,

And ne'er be drunk again.

When with good fellows we meet,

A quart among three or four, "Twill make us stand on our feet,

While others lie drunk on the floor. Then drawer, go fill us a quart,

And let it be claret in grain ; 'Twill cherish and comfort the heart,

But we'll ne'er be drunk again.

Here's a health to our noble king,

And to the queen of his heart ; Let's laugh, and merrily sing,

And he's a coward that will start : Here's a health to our general,

And to those that were in Spain, And to our colonel,

And we'll ne'er be drunk again.

Enough's as good as a feast,

If a man did but measure know;
A drunkard's worse than a beast,

For he'll drink till he cannot go.
If a man could time recal,

In a tavern that's spent in vain,
We'd learn to be sober all,

And we'd ne'er be drunk again.

SONG XLVII.

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

Ye true honest Britons who love your own land,

Whose sires were so brave, so victorious and free, Who always beat France when they took her in hand,

Come join, honest Britons, in chorus with me. Let us sing our own treasures, old England's good cheer, The profits and pleasures of stout British beer; Your wine-tipling, dram-sipping fellows retreat, But your beer-drinking Britons can never be beat.

The French with their vineyards are meagre and pale,

They drink of the squeezings of half-ripen'd fruit ; But we who have hop-grounds to mellow our ale,

Are rosy and plump, and have freedom to boot. Let us sing, &c.

Should the French dare invade us, thus arm'd with our

poles, We'll bang their bare ribs, make their lantern-jaws

ring; For your beef-eating, beer-drinking Britons, are souls Who will spend their last drop for their country and

king

Let us sing our own treasures, old England's good cheer,
The profits and pleasures of stout British beer ;
Your wine-tipling, dram-sipping fellows retreat,
But your beer-drinking Britons can never be beat.

SONG XLVIII.

IN PRAISE OF ALE.

When the chill Sirocco * blows,

And winter tells a heavy tale,
When pies and daws, and rooks and crows,
Do sit and curse the frosts and snows,

Then give me ale.

Ale in a Saxon rumkin then,

Such as will make grimalkin prate,
Bids valour burgeon f in tall men,
Quickens the poet's wit and pen,

Despises fate.

Ale, that the absent battle fights,

And forms the march of Swedish drum,
Disputes with princes, laws and rights,
What's done and past tells mortal wights

And what's to come.

* So the modern copies. All the old ones read Charokkoe. The Sirocco (Ital. Scirocco) is the south-east wind, and would perhaps be more properly written and pronounced Shirocco.

+ [To enlarge or swell, as buds do ere they expand into leaves. This song, as I am kindly informed by my friend Mr. Douce, is indebted to these lines in Gayton's “ Art of Longevity,' 1659; chap. B, of Ale :'

< But when the keen Cheroketh blows fat bumpkin,
• Who will refuse to drink thee into rumkin.']

Ale, that the plowman's heart upkeeps,

And equals it to tyrants' thrones,
That wipes the eye that over-weeps,
And lulls in sweet and dainty sleeps,

The o'er-wearied bones.

Grand-child of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter,

Wine's emulous neighbour if but stale,
Ennobling all the nymphs of water,
And filling each man's heart with laughter,
Oh! give me ale.

0.

SONG XLIX.

THE EX-ALE-TATION OF ALE,

Not drunken, nor sober, but neighbour to both,

I met with a friend in Alesbury vale ;
He saw by my face, that I was in good case

To speak no great harm of a pot of good ale.

* This is to be found in Beaumont's poems, and may, on that authority, be assigned to him as its author. It appears, however, from the following extract, to have been once filiated upon a much higher personage.

• The veriest straws (like that of father Garnet) are shown to the world as admirable reliques, if the least strokes of the image of a ce. lebrated author does but seem to be upon them. The press hath • been injurious in this kind to the memory of Bishop Andrews, to ' whom it owed a deep and solemn reverence. It hath sent forth a “pamphlet upon an idle subject, under the venerabie name of that

great man; who, (like the grass in hot countries, of which they are wont to say that it groweth hay) was born grave and sober: and, still farther to aggravate the injury, it hath given to that idle subject

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