'Tis drinking makes us merry,
And mirth diverts all care;
A song of Hey down derry,
Is better than heavier air:
Make ready quickly, my boys,
And fill up your glasses higher;
For we'll present with huzzas,
And merrily all give fire;
Since drinking 's our desire,

And friendship we admire,

For here we'll stay, ne'er call Drawer what's to pay.

LVII.

THE GOOD FELLOW.

(From same, v, 16.)

LET's be jolly, fill our glasses,
Madness 'tis for us to think,

How the world is rul'd by asses,

That o'ersway the wise with chink:

Let not such vain thoughts oppress us,
Riches prove to them a snare;

We are all as rich as Croesus;

Drink your glasses, take no care.

Wine will make us fresh as roses,

And our sorrows all forget;
Let us fuddle well our noses,

Drink ourselves quite out of debt:

When grim death is looking for us,
Whilst we're singing o'er our bowls;
Bacchus joyning in our chorus,

Death depart, here's none but souls.

LVIII.

THE GOOD FELLOW.

(From same, v, 85-6. Words by Mr. Alexander Brome.)

STAY, stay, shut the gates,

T'other quart, faith, it is not so late

As you're thinking;

Those stars which you see,

In this hemisphere be,

But the studs in your cheeks by your drinking: The sun is gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys, To-morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we, boys, Drink wine, give him water, 'tis sack makes us jee, boys.

Fill, fill up the glass,

To the next merry lad let it pass,

Come away with 't:

Come set foot to foot,

And but give our minds to 't,

'Tis heretical six that doth slay wit,

No Helicon like to the juice of the vine is,

For Phoebus had never had wit, nor diviness,

Had his face been bow dy'd as thine, his, and mine is.

Drink, drink off your bowls,

We'll enrich both our heads and our souls

With Canary;

A carbuncled face,

Saves a tedious race,

For the Indies about us we carry:

Then hang up good faces, we'll drink till our noses
Give freedom to speak what our fancy disposes,
Beneath whose protection is under the roses.

This, this must go round.

Off your hats, till that the pavement be crown'd

With your beavers ;

A red-coated face,

Frights a serjeant-at-mace,

And the constable trembles to shivers :

In state march our faces like those of the quorum, When the wenches fall down, and the vulgar adore 'em, And our noses, like link-boys, run shining before 'em.

LIX.

THE JOVIAL DRINKER.

(From same, v, 91.)

A PLAGUE on those fools who exclaim against wine, And fly the dear sweets that the bottle doth bring; It heightens the fancy, the wit does refine,

And he that was first drunk was made the first king.

By the help of good claret old age becomes youth,
And sick men still find this the only physician;
Drink largely, you'll know by experience the truth,
That he that drinks most is the best politician.

To victory this leads on the brave cavalier,
And makes all the terrors of war but delight;
This flushes his courage, and beats off base fear,
'Twas that taught Cæsar and Pompey to fight.

This supports all our friends, and knocks down our foes, This makes all loyal men from courtier to clown; Like Dutchmen from brandy, from this our strength

grows,

So 'tis wine, noble wine, that's a friend to the crown.

LX.

A SONG IN PRAISE OF PUNCH.

(From same, v, 138.)

COME fill up the bowl with the liquor that fine is,
And much more divine is,

Than now-a-days wine is, with all their art,
None here can controul:

The vintner despising, though brandy be rising,
'Tis punch that must chear the heart:

The lover's complaining, 'twill cure in a trice,
And Cælia disdaining, shall cease to be nice,
Come fill up the bowl, &c.

Thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each lover,
When free from all care you'll quickly find,
As nature intended 'em willing and kind:
Come fill up the bowl, &c.

LXI.

THE PLAYERS' SONG.

(British Bibliographer, ii, 167. From Histrio-mastix.)

THE nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts downe all drinke when it is stale,

The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger,
Will make the sighing man a singer.

G