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“ Whatsoever ony man think,
She had been at the church.1
JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD, 2
Both hand and foot, go cold !
But-if that I
May have truly
I shall look like one,
By sweet Saint John,
Thouth I go bare,
Take you no care,
I stuff my skin
So full within
Of jolly good ale and old. 1 This neat touch comes from the second version of the poem. 2 The date of this chant may be somewhere towards 1540.
I cannot eat
But little meat,
But sure I think
That I could drink With him that wear'th an hood.
Drink is my life,
Although my wife Sometime do chide and scold :
Yet spare I not
To ply the pot
I love no roast,
But a brown toast, Or a crab in the fire;
A little bread
Shall do me stead, Much bread I never desire.
Nor frost nor sn
Nor wind, I trow, Can hurt me if it wold;
I am so wrapped
Within and lapped With jolly good ale and old Back and side &c.
I care right nought,
I take no thought For clothes to keep me warm :
Have I good drink,
I surely think Nothing can do me harm.
For truly than
I fear no man, Be he never so bold,
When I am armed
And throughly warmed With jolly good ale and old. Back and side &c.
But now and than
I curse and ban, They make their ale so small :
God give them care,
And evil to fare,-
Such peevish pew-
1 Destroy, ruin, spoil.
Not for a crown of gold
There cometh one sip
Within my lip, Whether it be new or old, Back and side &c.
Good ale and strong
Mak'th me among Full jocund and full light,
That oft I sleep,
And take no keep, From morning until night.
Then start I up,
And flee to the cup; The right way on I hold
My thirst to staunch;
I fill my paunch
And Kitt, my wife,
That as her life
Full oft drinketh she,
That ye may see
Then doth she troll
To me the bowl,
They that do drink
Till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do,
They shall not miss
To have the bliss That good ale hath brought them to.
And all poor souls
That scour black bowls, And them hath lustily trolled,
God save the lives
Of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old ! Back and side &c.
AS IT BEFELL ONE SATURDAY.1 As it befell one Saturday at noor,
As I went up Scotland gate, 1 heard one to another say,
“John a' Bagilie hath lost his mate." At Eaton Water I wash my hands
For tickling a tears I could scarce see: I lifted up my lily-white hands :
“O Katty Whitworth, God be with thee ! “There is none but you and I, sweetheart,
No lookers-on we can allow : Your lips they be so sugаred sweet
I must do more than kiss you now ! “Farewell, my love, my leave I take :
Though against my will, it must be so: No marvel all this moan I make :
Whom I love best I must forego ! “If that thou wilt Scotland forsake,
And come into fair England with me, Both kith and kin I will forsake,
Bonny sweet wench, to go with thee." There was two men, they loved a lass :
The one of them he was a Scot, The other was an Englishman
The name of him I have quite forgot. As I went up Kelsall wood,
And up that bank that was so stair,3 I looked over my left shoulder,
Where I was wont to see my dear. “There is sixteen in thy father's house :
Fifteen of them against me be : Not one of them to take my part,
But only thou, pretty Kattye.” The young man walked home again,
As time of night thereto moves : The fair maid called him back again,
And gave to him a sweet pair of gloves.
1 This is a specimen of the compositions termed “Tom-a-Bedlams," common and popular towards the beginning of the seventeenth century. The fun of them consists in their perpetual incongruities or irrelevancies.
2 Probably a mis-writing for “trickling :” or the change may be intentional, 3 Steer, steep
“Thy father hath silver and gold enough,
Silver and gold to maintain thee; But as for that I do not care,
So that thou wilt my true love be." “When I was young and in my youth,
Then could I have lovers two or three : ; Now I am old, and count the hours,
And fain would do—but it will not be.”, “Upon your lips my leave I take,
Desiring you to be my friend, And grant me love for love again,
For why, my life is at an end. “My mother, Kate, hath sent for me,
And needly her I must obey. I weigh not of thy constancy
When I am fled and gone away. “I weep, I wail, I wring my hands,
I sob, I sigh, I make heavy cheer! No marvel all this moan I make,
For why, alas ! I have lost my dear !"