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The Man in the Moon drinks Claret, As it was lately sung at the Curtain Holy wel to the same tune.
[illustration]
BAcchus the Father of drunken Nowles,
Full Mazers Beakers Glasses bowles
Greasie Flapdragons flemish Vpsie fréeze
With healths stab'd in arms upon naked knées
Of all his wines he makes you tasters,
So you tipple like Bumbasters.
Drink till you réel a welcome he doth give,
O how the boon Claret makes you live,
Not a painter purer Colour shows,
then whats laid on by Claret
Pearl and ruby both set oot the nose
when thin small béer doth mar it.
Rich wine is good,
It heats the blood,
It makes an old man lusty,
The young to brawl.
And Drawers up call,
Before being too much musty,
Whether you drink all or little,
Pot it so your selves you whitle,
Then thought twelve
A clock it ••e
Yet all the way go roaring,
If the hand,
Of bills cry stand.
Sweats that you must a whor—
Such Gambols, such tricks, such F••garies,
We fetch though we touch no Canaryes,
French wine till the welkin roares,
And cry out a pox of your scores.
In wine we call for bawdy Iiggs,
Catzoes, Rumbiloes, Whirligigs,
Crambo got in the huff-cap vain.
The Divell in the places you wot where raign
Brave wine it is thus tickles our héels,
Mull'd well in wine none sorrow feels.
Our Moon man and his Powder béef mad crew
thus caper through the liquor swéet turnep drew
Round about over tables and joyn'd stools,
lets dance with naked Rapiers.
Cut the fidle strings and then like fools,
kick out the fum fum scrapers,
There is no sound,
The cares can wound
As lids of wine pots clinking
Theres no such sport
When all amort
Man cry lets fall to drinking,
O tis nappy géer,
would each belly was fil'd here
Herrings pickel'd
Must be tickel'd,
Down to draw the liquor,
The salt Sammon
And fat Gammon,
Makes your wine drink quicker,
Our man in the Moon drinks Claret,
With Powder béef turnep and Carret,
If he doth so why should not you
Drink wine untill the Sky looks blew,
Hey for a turn thus above ground hey,
O my noddle too heavy doth way,
Metheglin Perry Syder nor strong Ale,
Are half so heavy be they nere so stale
Wine in our guts can never ruuthle,
Down now and than though it make us stumble
Yet scambling up a drunkard féels no pain
But cryes sirra boy tother pottle again,
We can drink no more unlesse we have
full pipes of Trinidado,
Give us the best it kéeps our brains
more warm then can frézado.
It makes us sing,
And cry hey jing,
And laugh when Pipes lye broken
For which to pay
At going away,
We scorn a Mustard Token.
Never curse the sawcy score
Out swear the bar you'l pay no more.
In these dayes
He is no Gallant,
That cannot puff and swagger
Though he dare not kill a shéep,
Yet out must flye his Dagger.
If then you do love my Oast Claret,
Fat Powder béef turnep and Carret,
Come agen and agen
And still welcome Gentlemen.