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, There's never a lord of a manor or of a town, But thinks it a franchife, and a flow'r of the crown, And though there lie writs from the courts paramount, Law favours it so, you may come, you may go, 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, To the praise of Gambrivius, that good British king, 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, The Picts and the Scots for ale were at lots, So high was the fkill, and fo kept under feal: But hither and thither, it kills not much whether: Now, if ye will fay it, I will not denay it, That many a man it brings to his bale: 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; But beer hath its name, 'cause it brings to the bier, 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! Thus (I trow) fome virtues I have mark'd you out, But that after the pot there cometh a shot, With that my friend faid, that blot will I bear, 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, But wine, that's richer, better ftill, Rum, brandy, gin with choiceft fmack, Oh! whether thee I clofely hug In barrel or in bottle pent, But chief when to the chearful glafs, 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: Can any taste this drink divine, And then compare rum, brandy, wine, Infpir'd by thee the warrior fights, And pens the pleafing tale; High church and low oft raife a ftrife, Infpir'd by thee, fhall Crifpin fing, While his rich landlord lays out schemes O bleft |