Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Pot of Good Ale
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.
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.
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.
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.