From In Praise of Ale by W. T. Marchant (London: George Redway, 1888), page 191:


SUFFOLK HARVEST-HOME SONG.

Here's a health unto our master, the founder of the feast!
I wish with all my heart and soul in heaven he may find rest.
I hope all things may prosper, that ever he takes in hand;
For we are all his servants, and all at his command.
Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill,
For if you do you must drink two,—it is our master's will.

Now our harvest is ended, and supper is past;
Here's our mistress' good health, in a full flowing glass!
She is a good woman,—she prepared us good cheer;
Come, all my brave boys, and drink off your beer.
Drink, my boys, drink, till you come unto me,
The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier we shall be.

In yon greenwood there lies an old fox,
Close by his den you may catch him, or no;
Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no.
His beard and his brush are all of one colour,—
(Takes the glass and empties it off)
I'm sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller.
'Tis down the red lane, 'tis down the red lane!
So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane.