Hilaria: The Festive Board by Charles Morris - HTML preview

GOODY BURTON’s ALE.

Tune, The Dusty Miller.

Goody Burton’s ale

Gets into my noddle,

’Tis so stout and pale,

It makes me widdle waddle;

When I came to ask,

Who the brewing taught her,

I found out each cask

Was brew’d by—Goody’s daughter.

Now I long’d to see

Goody’s buxom brewer,

Hoping I should be

The only one to woe her;

When I spoke her soft,

I meant not to fool her,

So I went aloft,

And warm’d her in the cooler.

Oh! what flesh and blood!

Malt, and hop, and water,

Are not near so good

As Goody Burton’s daughter;

I made her heart right glad,

For till I came across it,

She had never had

A spigot in her fauset.

Nightly at my door

Comes a gentle rapping,

’Tis Miss Burton sure,

Who wants her barrel tapping;

When her barrel’s tapp’d,

She with art and cunning,

Turns the patent cock,

And sets the liquor running.

Other folks I hear,

Pant for Betsy Burton,

But I’ve nought to fear,

So I let her flirt on;

If her cask runs low,

Slowly comes the liquor,

Betsy tilts it so,

And makes it come the quicker.

Mellow up and ripe,

I and Parson Cottle,

Sit behind a pipe,

And quaff the ale in bottle;

Goody Burton bye,

Sings to please the parson,

While Miss B. and I

Carry Nature’s—farce on.

By the yeast I swear,

Yielding fermentation,

To the home-brew’d beer,

The neighbour’s admiration,

This the maid will tell,

The Bard’s no bragging talker,

Like ale, to keep her well,

Well, by Jove,—I cork her.