But had it been in a leather bottèl,
Although he had fallen, all had been well;
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
Then what do you say to these glasses fine?
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine;
For if you chance to touch the brim,
Down falls the liquor and all thereing
But had it been in a leather bottèl,
And the stopple in, all had been well;
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
Then what do you say to these black-pots three?
If a man and his wife should not agree,
Why they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill;
In a leather bottèl they may tug their fill,
And pull away till their hearts do ache,
And yet their liquor no harm can take;
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
Then what do you say to these flagons fine?
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine;
For when a lord is about to dine,
And sends them to be fill'd with wine,
The man with the flagon doth run away,
Because it is silver most gallant and gay;
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
A leather bottel we know is good,
Far better than glasses or cans of wood,
For when a man's at work in the field,
Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield;
But a good leather bottel standing by,
Will raise his spirits whenever he's dry;
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
At noon the haymakers sit them down,
To drink from their bottels of ale nut-brown;
In summer too, when the weather is warm,
A good bottel full will do them no harm.
Then the lads and the lassies begin to tattle;
But what would they do without this bottel?
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
There's never a lord, an earl, or knight,
But in this bottel doth take delight;
For when he's hunting of the deer,
He oft doth wish for a bottel of beer.
Likewise the man that works in the wood,
A bottel of beer will oft do him good:
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
And when the bottel at last grows old,
And will good liquor no longer hold,
Out of the side you may make a clout
To mend your shoes when they're worn out;
Or take and hang it up on a pin,
"Twill serve to put hinges and odd things in;
So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell
That first found out the leather bottèl.
COME, THOU MONARCH OF THE VINE.
From "Antony and Cleopatra," by SHAKSPEARE
COME, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne;
In thy vats our cares be drown'd,
With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd,
Cup us till the world go round.
THERE was a jolly tinker,
Who was a good ale drinker,
He never was a shrinker,
Believe me this is true;
And he came from the weald of Kent,
When all his money was gone and spent,
Which made him look like a jack-a-lent.
And Joan's ale is new,
And Joan's ale is new, my boys,
And Joan's ale is new.
And Joan's Ale, &c.
The tinker he did settle
Most like a man of mettle,
And vowed to pawn his kettle
Now mark what did ensue :
His neighbours they flock in apace,
They see Tom Tinker's comely face,
Where they drink soundly for a space,
Whilst Joan's ale, &c.
The cobbler and the broom-man,
Came up into the room, man,
And said they would drink for boon, man;
Let each one take his due!
But when the liquor good they found
They cast their caps upon the ground.
And so the Tinker he drank round,
Whilst Joan's ale, &c.
On the 26th October, 1594, John Danter entered on the books of the Stationers' Company, "for his copie, a ballet intituled Jone's Ale is Newe." And on the 15th November of the same year, Edward White one called "The Unthrifte's Adieu to Jone's Ale is Newe."From "Chappell's Popular Music of the Olden Time."
THE thirsy earth drinks up the rain,
And thirsts and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less),
Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in nature's sober found;
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses here; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Freely translated from Anacreon. The music to this song, says Ritson, was originally set by Mr. Roger Hill, and is to be found in "Playford's Second Book of Airs and Dialogues by Lawes and other excellent masters, 1669.
BEGONE, dull Care,-I prithee begone from me;
Begone, dull Care,-thou and I shall never agree;
Long time thou hast been tarrying here,
And fain thou wouldst me kill;
But i'faith, dull Care,
Thou never shalt have thy will.
Too much care will make a young man gray;
And too much care will turn an old man to clay.
My wife shall dance, and I will sing,
So merrily pass the day;
For I hold it still the wisest thing
To drive dull care away.
This popular song is as old as the year 1687, when it first appeared in "Playford's Musical Companion." The air when played slowly is very pathetic.
DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN.
HERE'S health to the King, and a lasting peace,
To faction an end, to wealth increase;
Come, let's drink it while we have breath,
For there's no drinking after death;
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men let him lie.
Let charming beauty's health go round,
In whom celestial joys are found,
And may confusion still pursue
The senseless woman-hating crew;
And they that woman's health deny,
Down among the dead men let them lie.
In smiling Bacchus' joy I'll roll,
Deny no pleasure to my soul;
Let Bacchus' health round briskly move,
For Bacchus is a friend to love;
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men let him lie.
May love and wine their rights maintain,
And their united pleasures reign,
While Bacchus' treasures crowns the board,
We'll sing the joys that both afford;
And they that won't with us comply,
Down among the dead men let them lie.
From a note in the handwriting of Dr. Burney, in his collection of English songs, in nine volumes, in the British Museum, it appears that the author of this song was a "Mr. Dyer, and that it was first sung at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields." It seems to have
been published early in the reign of George I. The author of the music, a fine characteristic English melody, is not known. By the "dead men" are meant the empty bottles, usually placed on the floor, at a drinking bout, of those times.
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