JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

Back and side go bare, go bare,

Both Hand and foot go cold;

But belly, God sent thee good ale enough,

Whether it be new or old.

But if that I may have truly

Good ale my belly full,

I shall look like one, by sweet Saint John,

Were shorn against the wool.

Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I am nothing cold,

I stuff my skin so full within

Of jolly good ale and old.

I cannot eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I could drink

With him that weareth a hood.

Drink is my life; although my wife

Some time do chide and scold,

Yet spare I not to ply the pot

Of jolly good ale and old.

I love no roast but a nutbrown toast,

Or a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,

Much bread I never desire.

No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,

Can hurt me if I wold,

I am so wrapped within and lapped

With jolly good ale and old.

I care right nought, I take no thought

For clothes to keep me warm;

Have I good drink, I surely think

Nothing can do me harm.

For truly then I fear no man,

Be he never so bold,

When I am armed and thoroughly warmed

With jolly good ale and old.

But now and then I curse and ban,

They make their ale so small;

God give them care and evil to fare!

They stry the malt and all.

Such peevish pew, I tell you true,

Nor for a crown of gold

There cometh one sip within my lip,

Whether it be new or old.

Good ale and strong maketh me among

Full jocund and full light,

That oft I sleep and take no keep

From morning until night.

Then start I up and flee to the cup;

The right way on I hold;

My thirst to staunch, I fill my paunch

With jolly good ale and old.

And Kit my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seek,

Full oft drinketh she, that ye may see

The tears run down her cheek.

Then doth she troll to me the bowl,

As a good malt-worm shold,

And saith “Sweetheart, I have take my part

Of jolly good ale and old.”

They that do drink till they nod and wink,

Even as good fellows should do;

They shall not miss to have the bliss

That good ale hath brought them to.

And all poor souls that scour black bowls,

And them hath lustily troll’d,

God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be young or old.

                                       William Stevenson    1530-1575