 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
339
THE TOPERS RANT
Come come my old crones & gay fellows
That loves to drink ale in a horn
We'll sing racey songs now we're mellow
Which topers sung ere we were born
For our bottle kind fate shall be thanked
& line but our pockets with brass
We'll sooner suck ale through a blanket
Then thimbles of wine from a glass
That loves to drink ale in a horn
We'll sing racey songs now we're mellow
Which topers sung ere we were born
For our bottle kind fate shall be thanked
& line but our pockets with brass
We'll sooner suck ale through a blanket
Then thimbles of wine from a glass
Away with your proud thimble glasses
Of wine foreign nations supply
We topers neer drink to the lasses
Over draughts scarce enough for a flye
Club us with the hedger & ditcher
Or beggar that makes his own horn
To join us oer bottle or pitcher
Foaming oer with the essence of corn
Of wine foreign nations supply
We topers neer drink to the lasses
Over draughts scarce enough for a flye
Club us with the hedger & ditcher
Or beggar that makes his own horn
To join us oer bottle or pitcher
Foaming oer with the essence of corn
We care not with whom we get tipsey
Or where with brown stout we regale
We'll weather the storm with a gipsey
If he be a lover of ale
We'll weather the toughest storm weary
Although we get wet to the skin
If the outside our cottage looks dreary
We're warm & right happy within
Or where with brown stout we regale
We'll weather the storm with a gipsey
If he be a lover of ale
We'll weather the toughest storm weary
Although we get wet to the skin
If the outside our cottage looks dreary
We're warm & right happy within
We'll sit till the bushes are dropping
Like the spout of a watering pan
For till the drams drank theres 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
& bushes & trees begin reeling
In our eyes like to ships in a storm
Like the spout of a watering pan
For till the drams drank theres 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
& bushes & trees begin reeling
In our eyes like to ships in a storm
We'll sit from three hours before seven
When larks wake the morning to dance
Till nights sutty brood of eleven
When 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
When larks wake the morning to dance
Till nights sutty brood of eleven
When witches ride over to france
We'll sit it in spite of the weather
Till we tumble our length on the plain
340
To play the game over again
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |