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SECOND PART.

The bonny Scot will lay a plot

To get a handsome touch
Of this my ale, so good and stale,

So will the cunning Dutch:
They will take a part with all their heart,

To sing this tune with me,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,

And a little above my knee.

It will make the Irish cry A hone!

If they but take their fill,
And put them all quite out of tune,

Let them use their chiefest skill,
So strong and stout it will hold out

In any company, For my

ale was tunn’d when I was young, And a little above my knee.

The Welchman on St. David's day

Will cry, cots plutter a nail,
Hur will hur ferry quite away,

From off that nappy ale :
It makes hur foes with hur red nose,

Hur seldom can agree,
But my ale was tunn'd when I was young,

And a little above my knee.

The Spaniard stout will have about,

'Cause he hath store of gold, Till at the last, he is laid fast,

My ale doth him so hold :
His poignard strong is laid along,
Yet he is good company,

ale was tunn'd when I was young, And a little above my knee.

For my

There's never a tradesman in England,

That can my ale deny,
The weaver, tailor and glover

Delight it for to buy,
Small money they do take away,

If that they drink with me,
For
my

ale was tunn'd when I was young, And a little above

my

knee.

There is smug the honest blacksmith,

He seldom can pass by, Because a spark lies in his throat

Which makes him very dry : But my old ale tells him his tale,

So finely we agree, For my

ale was tunn'd when I was young; And a little above my knee.

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The brewer, haker and butcher,

As well as all the rest,
Both night and day will watch where they

May find ale of the best :
And the gentle craft will come full oft,

To drink a cup with me,
For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,

And a little above my knee.

So to conclude good fellows all,

I bid you all adieu,
If that you love a cup of ale,

Take rather old than new,
For if you come where I do dwell,

And chance to drink with me,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,

And a little above my knee.

!

XXXVII.

“ THE LITTLE BARLEY-CORN :

Whose properties and vertues here
Shall plainly to the world appeare ;
To make you merry all the ycere."

To the tune of Stingo.

Come, and do not musing stand,

If thou the truth discern;
But take a full cup in thy hand

And thus begin to learn,
Not of the earth nor of the air,

At evening or at morn,
But jovial boys your Christmas keep

With the little barley-corn.

It is the cunningest alchymist

That e'er was in the land,
'Twill change your mettle when it list,

In turning of a hand.
Your blushing gold to silver wan,

Your silver into brass ;
"Twill turn a taylor to a man,

And a man into an ass.

'Twill make a poor man rich to hang

A sign before his door,
And those that do the pitcher bang,

Though rich, 'twill make them poor, "Twill make the silliest poorest snake

The King's great porter scorn ; 'Twill make the stoutest lubber weak,

This little barley-corn.

It hath more shifts than Lamb e'er had,

Or Hocus pocus too;
It will good fellows shew more sport

Than Bankes his horse could do: 'Twill play you fair above the board,

Unless you take good heed, And fell you, though you were a lord,

And justify the deed.

It lends more years unto old age,

Than e'er was lent by nature ; It makes the poet's fancy rage,

More than Castalian water. "Twill make a huntsman chase a fox,

And never wind his horn; "Twill cheer a tinker in the stocks,

This little barley-corn.

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