Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/364

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346

A Pot of Good Ale.

An Old English Song, 1661.

The poor man will praise it, so hath he good cause,
That all the year eats neither partridge nor quail,
But sets up his nest, and makes up his feast
With a crust of brown bread and a pot of good ale.

And the good old clerk, whose sight waxeth dark,
And ever he thinks the print is top small,
He will see every letter, arid say service better,
If he glaze but his eyes with a pot of good ale.

The poet divine, that cannot reach wine,
Because that his money doth many times fail,
Will hit on the vein to make a good strain,
If he be but inspired with a pot of good ale.

A Knapsack and a Cheerful Heart.

We soldiers drink, we soldiers sing,
We fight our foes, love Queen or King;
While all our wealth two words impart,
A knapsack and a cheerful heart.
While the merry, merry fife and drum,
Bid intruding care be dumb;
Sprightly still we sing and play,
And make dull life a holiday.

Though we march, or though we halt,
Or though the enemy we assault;
Though we're cold, or though we're warm,
Or though the sleeping town we storm,
Still the merry, merry fife and drum, &c.

Are lasses kind, or are they shy,
Or do they pout they know not why?
While full the knapsack, light the heart,
Content we meet, content we part.
For the merry, merry fife and drum, &c.

We sigh not for the toils of State—
We ask not of the rich or great;
For be we rich, or be we poor,
Are purses full, or duns at door,
Still the merry, merry fife and drum, &c.