This morning I woke up with a new verse for "O, Good Ale" muddling about in my head. I scribbled it down, and pretty soon I had this:

My fine good ale, you make me smile
And when I drink, life seems worthwhile;
But an ale-less life I'd never bear
For it's only sweat and fret and care.

I love to tipple 'neath the moon
With friends around to join and croon
And spin a tale that's long and tall
And find relief against a wall.

They say ale has me in its yoke:
It kills my drive and keeps me broke;
But who'd leave his fields, his friends, his cheer
For an easy life with bottled beer?

There is ale that comes from factories:
That feeble bilge can never please.
A good home brew's robust and stout;
It heals within; I'd die without...


I also rewrote the first verse of the text in The Banquet of Thalia ("The Landlord he looks very big...") to sound less dated and awkward:

The landlord in fine clothes does strut
And scarce can see beyond his gut;
He wears flash rings on fingers fat--
It's you and I he thanks for that.

This pairs nicely with the second Thalia verse (only slightly revised):

The brewer brewed you in his pan;
The tapster draws you in his can;
So with them I will play my part
And nestle you next to my heart.

Neither verse appears in the Coppers' version.