When we thy orgies sing,
Each cobler is a king;
Nor dreads he any thing.
And though he doth not rave,
Yet he'l the courage have
To call my lord major knave;
Besides too, in a brave.
Although he has no riches,
But walks with dangling breeches, And skirts that want their stitches; And shews his naked flitches;
Yet he'l be thought or seen;
So good as George-a-green;
And calls his blouze, his queene,
And speaks in a language keene.
O Bacchus! let us be
From cares and troubles free;
And thou shalt hear how we
Will chant new hymnes to thee.
I's not come here to tauke of Prut,
From whence the Welse does take hur root;
Nor tell long pedegree of Prince Camber,
Whose linage would fill full a chamber,
Nor sing the deeds of old Saint Davie,
The ursip of which would fill a navie.
But hark you me now, for a liddel tales
Sall make a gread deal to the creddit of Wales.
For hur will tudge your eares,
With the praise of hur thirteen seers;
And make you as clad and merry,
As fourteen pot of perry.
'Tis true, was weare him sherkin frieze,
But what is that? we have store of seize ;
And Got is plenty of coats milk
That sell him well, will buy him silk
Inough, to make him fine to quarrell
At Herford sizes in new apparell;
And get him as much green melmet perhap,
Sall give it a face to his Momouth cap.
But then the ore of Lemster,
Py Cot is uver a sempster;
That when he is spun, or did
Yet match him with hir thrid.
Aull this the backs now, let us tell ye,
Of some provisions for the belly :
As cid and goat, and great goats mother,
And runt, and cow, and good cows uther.
And once but tast on the Welse mutton;
Your Englis seeps not worth a button.
And then for your fiss, sall shoose it your diss,
Look but about, and there is a trout.
A salmon, cor, or chevin,
Will feed you six or seven ;
As taull man as ever swagger
With Welse club, and long dagger.
But all this while, was never think
A word in praise of our Welse drink :
Yet for aull that, is a cup of Bragat,
Aull England seer may cast his cap at.
And what you say to ale of Webley,
Toudge him as well, you'll praise him trebly,
As well as Metheglin, or Syder, or Meath,
S'all sake it your dagger quite out o'the seath.
And oate-cake of Guarthenion,
And yet is nothing now all this,
If of our musicks we do miss ;
Both harpes, and pipes too, and the crowd,
Must aull come in, and tauk alowd,
As lowd as Bangu, Davies bell,
Of which is no doubt you have here tell :
As well as our lowder Wrexam organ,
And rumbling rocks in the seer of Glamorgan,
Where look but in the ground there,
And you sall see a sound there;
That put her all to gedder,
Is sweet as measure pedder.
A modest shentle when hur see
The great laugh hur made on me,
And fine wink that hur send
To hur come to see hur friend:
Hur coud not strose py Got
apove, Put was entangle in hur love.
A hundred a time hur was about
To speak to hur, and have hur out,
Put hur being a Welshman porne,
And therefore was think, hur woud hur scorne;
Was fear hur think, nothing petter,
Then cram hur love into a letter ;
Hoping he will no ceptions take
Unto hur love, for country sake:
For say hur be Welshman, whad ten?
Py Got they all be shentlemen,
Was decend from Shoves nown line,
Par humane, and par divine;
And from Venus, that fair goddess,
And twenty other shentle poddys :
Hector stout, and comely Parris,
Arthur, Prute, and king of Fayris,
Was hur nown cosins all a kin
We have the Powels issue in :
And for ought that hur con see,
As goot men, as other men pee:
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