The Man in the Moon Drinks Clarret.
As it was lately sung at the Curtain Holy Well. To the same Tune.
BAcchus the father of drunken Fowls,
Full Mazers, Beakers, Glasses, bowls,
Greasie Flapdragons, Flemish upsie freeze,
With health s
[...]a
[...]'d in arms upon naked knees
Of all his wines he makes you tasters,
So you tipple like bumbasters
Drink till you reel a welcome he doth give,
O how the boon Claret makes you live?
Not a Painter purer colour shows,
than whats laid on by Claret,
Pearl and Ruby doth set out the Nose,
when thin small beer doth mar it,
Rich wine is good, it heats the blood,
it makes an old man lusty,
The Young to brawl, and the Drawers call,
before being too much musty.
Whether you drink all or little,
Pot it so your selves to whittle,
Then though twelve a Clock it be,
Yet all the way go roaring,
If the band of bills cry
stand,
Swear that
you must a Who—
Such Gambols, such tricks, such fegaries,
We fetch though we touch no Canaries:
Drink wine till the
Welkin roars,
And cry out a pox of your Scores.
In wine we call for bawdy Iiggs,
Catzoes, Rumbillows, whirligigs,
Campo get in Huff Cap vain,
The Devil in the places you w
[...]t were reign,
Brave wine it thus tickles our Heels,
Mull'd well in wine none sorrow feels,
Our Moon-man & his powder-beef mad crew
Thus caper thro' the liquor sweet
turnip drew,
Round about over tables and joint stools
let's dance with naked Rapiers,
Cut the Fidle-strings, and then like fools
kick out the fum fum scrapees,
There is no sound that cares can wound,
as lids of wine-pots clinking,
There's no such sport, when all amort,
men cry lets fall to drinking;
O 'tis happy Geer,
VVould each belly was filled here,
Herrings pickled must be tickled,
Down to draw the liquor,
The salt Sammon and fat Gammon,
Makes our wine drink quicker,
Our Man in the Moon drinks Clarret,
VVith powder-beef turnep and carret,
If he doth so, why should nor you,
Drink until the Sky looks blew.
Hey for a turn thus above Ground,
O my Noddle too heavy doth weigh,
Metheglin, Perry, Sider, nor strong ale,
Are half so heavy, be they nere so stale:
VVine in our Guts can never rumble,
Down now and then tho' it make us tumble;
Yet scrambling up a Drunkard feels no pain,
but crys Sirrah boy, ther pottle again,
VVe can drink no more unless we have
full pipes of Trinnidado,
Give us the best it keeps our brains
more warm than does freezado.
It makes us sing and cry hey ding,
And laugh when Pipes lie broken,
For which to pay at going away,
we scorn a Mustard token;
Never curse the sawcy Score,
Out-swear the bar you'll pay no more;
in these daies he is no Gallant
That cannot puff and swagger,
though he dare not kill a sheep,
Yet out must flie his dagger:
If then you do love my Hosts Clarret,
Fat powder-beef, turnip and carret,
Come again and again,
And still welcome Gentlemen,
Printed by and for A. M. and sold by the Booksellers of London.
New Mad Tom of Bedlam. OR,
The Man in the Moon drinks Clarret,
VVith Powder-beef, Turnip and Carret.
Tune is,
Grays-Inn Mask.
FOrth from my sad and darksome Cell,
Or from the deep abiss of Hell,
Mad
Tom is come to view the world again,
To see if he can ease his distemper'd brain:
Fear and care both pierce the Soul,
Hark! how the angry Furies howl!
Pluto laughs, and
Proserpine is glad,
To see poor naked
Tom of
Bedlam mad:
Through the world I wander night and day
to find my strangling Senses,
In an angry mood I found Old
Time
with's Pentarchy of Tenches,
When me he spies away he flies,
For time will stay for no man,
In vain with crys I rend the Skies,
For pity is not common,
Cold and Comfortless I lie,
Help, O help, or else I die.
Hark I hear
Apollo's Team,
The Carman gins to whistle,
Chast
Diana bends her bow,
The Boar begins to bristle,
Come
Vulcan with tools and with tackle,
Shake off my troublesome shackle,
Let
Charles make ready his wain
To bring me my Senses again.
Last night I heard the
Dog-Star bark,
Mars met
Venus in the dark,
Leaping
Vulcan het an Iron bar,
And furiously did run at the God of war,
Mars with his weapon laid about,
But
Vulcan's temples had the gout,
His broad Horns did so hang in his sight,
He could not see to aim his blows aright:
Mercury, the nimble Post of Heaven
staid still to see the Quarrel,
Gorrel bestied
Baccus Gyant like
bestrid a strong beer barrel:
To me he drank, I did him thank,
but I could get no Sider,
He drank whole buts till he crackt his guts,
but mine were ne'er the wider.
Poor naked
Tom is very dry,
A little drink for Charity:
Hark I hear
Acteons hounds
The Huntsman hoops and hollows,
Ringing Ryoster, Bowman Iowler,
At the Chase now follows,
The man in the Moon drinks Clarret;
With Powder-beef, Turnep and Carret,
A Cup of old Malago Sack
Will fire his bush at his back.