From The Roxburghe Ballads, Vol. II edited by Charles Hindley (London: Reeves and Turner, 1874)


GOOD ALE FOR MY MONEY.

The Good-Fellows resolution of strong Ale,
That cures his nose from looking pale.

TO THE TUNE OF The Countrey Lasse.

Be merry, my friends, and list a while
  unto a merry jest;
It may from you produce a smile,
  when you heare it exprest,—
Of a young man lately married,
  which was a boone good fellow,
This song in 's head he alwaies carried
  when drink had made him mellow:
I cannot go home, nor I will not go home,
  It's long of the oyle of Barly;
Ile tarry all night for my delight,
  and go home in the morning early.

No Tapster stout, or Vintner fine,
  quoth he, shall ever get
One groat out of this purse of mine,
  to pay his master's debt:
Why should I deal with sharking Rookes,
  that seeke poor gulls to cozen,
To give twelve pence for a quart of wine?
  of ale 'twell buy a dozen.
Twill wake me sing I cannot, &c.

The old renowned I-pocrist
  and Raspie doth excell;
But never any wine could yet
  my honour please to swell.
The Rhenish wine, or Muskadine,
  sweet Malmsie is too fulsome;
No give me a cup of Barlie broth,
  for that is very wholesome.
Twill wake me sing I cannot, &c.

Hot waters are to me as death,
  and soone the head oreturneth.
And Nectar hath so strong a breath;
  Canary, when it burneth,
It cures no paine, but breaks the braine,
  and raps out oathes and curses,
And makes men part with heavie heart,
  but light it makes their purses.
I cannot go home, &c.

Some say Metheglin beares the name
  with Perry and sweet Sider;
'Twill bring the body out of frame,
  and reach the belly wider;
Which to prevent I am content
  with ale that's good and nappie,
And when thereof I have enough,
  I thinke my selfe most happy.
I cannot go home, &c.

All sorts of men, when they do meet,
  both trade and occupation,
With curtesie each other greet,
  and kinde humiliation;
A good coale fire is their desire,
  whereby to sit and parly;
They'le drinke their ale, and tell a tale,
  and go home in the morning early.
I cannot go home, &c.

Your domineering, swaggering blades,
  and Cavaliers that flashes,—
That throw the Jugs against the walls,
  and break in peeces glasses,—
When Bacchus round cannot be found,
  they will, in merriment,
Drinke ale and beere, and cast off care,
  and sing with one consent:
I cannot go home, &c.

The Second Part to the Same Tune.

Here, honest John, to thee He drinke,
  and so to Will and Thomas;
None of this company, I thinke,
  will, this night, part from us;
While we are here, wee'll joyne for beere,
  like lively lads together!
We have a house over our heads,—
  a fig for ranie weather.
I cannot go home, nor I will not go home,
  It's 'long of the oyle of barly;
I stay all night for my delight,
  And go home in the morning early.

Heres Smug, the smith, and Ned, the cook,
  and Frank, the fine felt-maker;
Heres Steven with his silver hooke,
  and Wat, the lustie baker;
Heres Harry & Dick, with & Greg and Nicke;
  heres Timothy, the Tailor;
Heres honest Kit, nere spoke of yet,
  and George, the joviall Sayler.
That cannot &c.

Wee'll sit and bouse, and merrily chat
  and freely we will joyne;
For care neere paid a pound of debt,
  nor shall pay none of mine.
Here is but eighteen pence to pay,
  since every man is willing;
Bring drinke with all the speed you may,
  wee'll make it up two shillings.
We cannot &c.

Let Father frowne, and Mother chide,
  And Uncle seeke to finde us;
Here is good lap, here will we hide,
  weele leave no drinke behinde us.
A proverbe old I have heard told
  by my deere dad and grandsire,
He was hang'd that left his drinke behinde,"
  therefore this is our answer,
We cannot &c.

James, the Joyner, he hath paid,
  And Anthony, the Glover;
Our hostesse hath a pretty maid,
  I cannot chuse but love her:
Her pot she'll fill with right good will;—
  here's ale as browne as a berry,
Twill make an old woman dance for joy,
  and an old man's heart full merry.
I cannot &c.

'Twill make a Souldier domineere,
  and bravely draw his rapier;
Such vertue doth remaine in beere,
  'Twell make a Cripple caper:
Women with men will, now and then,
  sit round and drinke a little;
Tom Tinkers wife, on Friday night,
  fcr drinke did pawne her kettle,
She could not come home, nor would not come home,
  her belly began to rumble;
She had no power to go nor stand,
  but about the street did tumble.

Thus to conclude my verses rude,
  would some good fellowes here
Would joyne together pence a peece,
  to buy the singer beere:
I trust none of this company
  will be herewith offended;
Therefore, call for your Jugs a peece,
  and drink to him that pen'd it.

Finis. Lawrence Price.

Printed at London.