And in very deed the hop's but a weed,

Brought o'er against law, and here fet to fale: Would the law were renew'd, and no more beer brew'd, But, all men betake them to a pot of good ale.

The law that will take it under his wing,

For, at every law-day, or moot of the hale,
One is fworn to ferve our fovereign lord the king,
In the ancient office of conner of ale.

There's never a lord of a manor or of a town,
By ftrand or by land, by hill or by dale,

But thinks it a franchife, and a flow'r of the crown,
To hold the affize of a pot of good ale.

And though there lie writs from the courts paramount,
To stay the proceedings of the courts paravaile;

Law favours it so, you may come, you may go,
There lies no prohibition to a pot of good ale.

They talk much of state, both early and late,

But if Gascoigne and Spain their wine fhould but fail, No remedy then with us Englishmen,

But the ftate it must ftand by a pot of good ale.

But they that fit by it, are good men and quiet,
No dangerous plotters in the common-weal,
Of treafon and murder; for they never go further
Than to call for, and pay for a pot of good ale.

To the praise of Gambrivius, that good British king,
That devis'd for the nation (by the Welfhmens tale)
Seventeen hundred years before Chrift did spring,
The happy invention of a pot of good ale.

They

The North they will praife it, and praife it with paffion,

Where every river gives name to a dale:

There men are yet living that are of th'old fashion,
No nectar they know but a pot of good ale.

The Picts and the Scots for ale were at lots,

So high was the fkill, and fo kept under feal:
The Picts were undone, flain each mothers fon,
For not teaching the Scots to make hether ale.

But hither and thither, it kills not much whether:
For drink must be had, men live not by kail,
Nor by haver.banocks, nor by haver-janocks,
The thing the Scots live on is a pot of good ale.

Now, if ye will fay it, I will not denay it,

That many a man it brings to his bale:
Yet what fairer end can one wish to his friend,
Than to die by the part of a pot of good ale.

Yet let not the innocent bear any blame,

It is their own doings to break o'er the pale: And neither the malt, nor the good wife in fault, If any be potted with a pot of good ale.

They tell whom it kills, but fay not a word,

How many a man liveth both found and hale, Though he drink no beer any day in the year,

By the radical humour of a pot of good ale.

But to speak of killing them am I not willing;
For that in a manner were but to rail;

But beer hath its name, 'cause it brings to the bier,
Therefor well fare fay I to a pot of go d ale.

Too many (I wis) with their deaths prove this,

And therefor (if ancient records do not fail) He that first brew'd the hop was rewarded with a rope, And found his beer far more bitter than ale.

O ale ab alendo, the liquor of life!

That I had but a mouth as big as a whale!
For mine is but little to touch the least tittle
That belongs to the praife of a pot of good ale,

Thus (I trow) fome virtues I have mark'd you out,
And never a vice in all this long trail,

But that after the pot there cometh a shot,
And that's th'only blot of a pot of good ale.

With that my friend faid, that blot will I bear,
You have done very well, it is time to ftrike fail,
We'll have fix pots more, though I die on the score,
To make all this good of a pot of good ale.

0.

W

SONG LI.

ON ALE.*

HILST fome in epic ftrains delight,

Whilft others paftorals invite,

As taste or whim prevail,

Affift me, all ye tuneful nine!

Support me in the great defign,

To fing of nappy ale.

This ballad is printed as mr. Gays, in fome editions of his works,

Some folks of cyder make a rout,
And cyder's well enough no doubt,
When better liquors fail;

But wine, that's richer, better ftill,
E'en wine itself (deny't who will)
Muft yield to nappy ale.

Rum, brandy, gin with choiceft fmack,
From Holland brought, Batavia 'rack,
All these will nought avail;
To chear a truly British heart,
And lively fpirits to impart,
Like humming nappy ale.

Oh! whether thee I clofely hug
In honeft can, or nut-brown jug,
Or in the tankard hail;

In barrel or in bottle pent,
I give the gen'rous spirit vent,
Still may I feast on ale,

But chief when to the chearful glafs,
From veffel pure thy ftreamlets pass,

Then moft thy charms prevail;

Then, then I'll bett, and take the odds,

That nectar, drink of heathen gods,

Was poor compar'd to ale.

Give me a bumper, fill it up:
See how it fparkles in the cup;
Oh! how fhall I regale!

Can any taste this drink divine,

And then compare rum, brandy, wine,
Or aught with nappy ale?

Infpir'd by thee the warrior fights,
The lover woos, the poet writes,

And pens the pleafing tale;
And fill in Britains ille confeft,
Nought animates the patriots breaft
Like gen'rous nappy ale,

High church and low oft raife a ftrife,
And oft endanger limb and life,
Each fludious to prevail;
Yet Whig and Tory, oppofite
In all things elfe do both unite
In praise of nappy ale,

Infpir'd by thee, fhall Crifpin fing,
Or talk of freedom, church, and king,
And balance Europes fcale;

While his rich landlord lays out schemes
Of wealth in golden South-fea dreams,
Th'effects of nappy ale,

O bleft