Classic Poem

Come, come, my old crones and gay fellows
That love to drink ale in a horn,
We'll sing racy songs now we're mellow
Which topers sung ere we were born.
For our bottle kind fate shall be thanked,
And line but our pockets with brass,
We'll sooner suck ale through a blanket
Than thimbles of wine from a glass.

Away with your proud thimble glasses
Of wine foreign nations supply,
We topers ne'er drink to the lasses
Over draughts scarce enough for a fly.
Club us with the hedger and ditcher
Or beggar that makes his own horn,
To join us o'er bottle or pitcher
Foaming o'er with the essence of corn.

We care not with whom we get tipsy
Or where with brown stout we regale,
We'll weather the storm with a gipsy
If he be a lover of ale.
We'll weather the toughest storm weary
Although we get wet to the skin,
If outside our cottage looks dreary
We're warm and right happy within.

We'll sit till the bushes are dropping
Like the spout of a watering-pan,
For till the dram's drank there's no stopping,
We'll keep up the ring to a man.
We'll sit till Dame Nature is feeling
The breath of our stingo so warm,
And bushes and trees begin reeling
In our eyes like to ships in a storm.

We'll sit for three hours before seven,
When larks wake the morning to dance,
Till night's sooty brood of eleven,
With witches ride over to France.
We'll sit it in spite of the weather
Till we tumble our length on the plain,
When the morning shall find us together,
To play the game over again.