A Song.

1.

 H A ng the Presbyters Gill,
 Bring a Pinte of Sack Will ,
More Orthodox of the two;
 Though a slender dispute
 Will strike the Elfe mute,
Hees one of the honester Crue.

2.

 In a Pinte there's small heart,
 Sirrah, bring us a Quart,
There's substance and vigor met,
 'Twill hold us in Play,
 Some part of the day,
But we'll suck him before Sun-set.

3.

 The dareing old Pottle
 Does now bid us Battle;
Let's try what his strength can do;
 Keep your Ranks and your Flies:
 And for all his Wiles,
Wee'l tumble him down Staires too.

4.

 The Stout-breasted Lumberd,
 His Brains ne'r encumber'd
With drinking of Gallons three;
  Tricongius was named,
 And by Cæsar famed,
Who dubbed him Knight Cap-a-pe.

5.

 If then Honour be in't,
 Why a pox should we stint
Our selves of the fullness it bears?
 H' has lesse wit than an Ape
 In the blood of the Grape,
Will not plunge himself o're head and ears.

6.

 Then summon the Gallon,
 A stout Foe, and a tall One,
And likely to hold us to't;
 Keep Coyn in your Purse,
 The Word is disburse,
I'le warrant he falls at your foot.

7.

 See, the bold Foe appears,
 May he fall that him fears;
Keep you but close Order, and then
 We will give him the Rout,
 Be he never so stout,
And prepare for his Rallying agen.

8.

 Wee'l dreyn the whole Cellar,
 Pipes, Butts, and the Dweller,
If the Wine does flow no faster;
  Will , when thou dost slack us,
 By Warrant from Bacchus ,
Wee'l Cane thy Tun-belly'd Master.