The early poems of John Clare :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘Fortune if thoult but gie me still
‘Hale breeks a scone & wiskey gill
‘& rowth o ryhme to rave at will
‘Tak all the rest
‘& deal't about as thy blind skill
‘Directs thee best’
Burns

White flowering oer the tankards crown
Thou boast of every british town
Nick namd ‘old stout’ & ‘nock em down’
Old englands glory
All hail thou stingo of renown
Ale I adore thee

Thou down right death to pain & care
Of them I know Ive had my share
& most bin drove to hells despair
When theyve distrest me
But thee Ive sought at feast & fair
& thou hast blest me

& tho I love thee best of juices
Ill neer go make no vile excuses
For drunkards who thy name abuses
Theyre worse then hogs
When friend wi friend each other bruises
Like lugging dogs

281

In public hous such brutes of men
When ere I chance drop down agen
Ill never care to join em then
Curse on their spite
I call for half pint to my sen
& let em fight

Ale on thy name no buse I put on
I am no drunken lown nor glutton
A quarts as much as I get shut on
The best o' times
& then Im fixt as snugs a button
To tag my ryhmes

Ah kill care drug when Ive my gorge
All dumps & cares get their discharge
My old wrackt hulk gay trims her barge
Down pleasures sea
& I can cock my crown wi george
As blest as he

My health is then may sorrow die
& every soul be blest as I
& what thy spirits wornt supply
Each have his lass
& to that gem my heart holds nigh
Briton—success

282

O ale to sing how were thy debtors
Us hurkling half starvd labouring cre'tures
When we wi chiming luck can get us
An honest quart
How much thy juice our hard case betters
Its past my art

The toil worn thresher wan & pale
That most wants lifting up bys tale
Shove in his fist a quart of ale
Yed stare no doubt
To see him twirligig his flail
& come about

Old woodman rob up soon & late
& doomd to water porridge fate
Dips now i' beer—tho dead o late
Soon bove his want
As bugs a lord Ill bound to sayt
Hed sing & rant

O ale O ale what soul can ken
The wonders thou performsd on men
How thou drivst perking up agen
The drowking heart
Like majic spell to grief & pain
Is a full quart

Een begging tramps that scarce can hop
When luck picks twopence up to stop
& wet their throats wi barley drop
Then mark the trick
Theyve oft when left the stingo shop
Forgot their stick

& mark at times the feasting rout
No strut wi's snuff rag dingling out
Coud dance & push the quart about
The girls to please
& be more bumpsious then the lout
Such times as these

283

Theres some when gotten thro their groat
Will run the risk of hat & coat
& even pawn their shoes to boot
But these are such
Who'll bear for thee a sholess foot
Love thee to[o] much

Tho when their last groats forcd to pack
Tho coats are pawnd from off their back
& fragments left a tatterd wrack
All going to pot
While full of thee they take no lack
All cares forgot

Aye line but Johnneys fob wi chink
Half dead before as ye might think
Fix him wi some old crone to drink
O' merry vein
Yed think he never more coud sink
Ins dumps again

Where he as rich as any Lord
& when his last tooth was draw'd
Might splic't agen ats own accord
It coudnt mend
The joy that moment woud afford
Wis jug & friend

But was I ale to gi thee due
& praise thee as I ought to do
From morn till night I might pu[r]sue
& then attend
When't came agen wi praises new
World wi out end

O toils support & troubles cheer
Thus much I know if wanting beer
As sures Im born ere nother year
Had made its bed
Theyd tythe of us poor souls or near
Be toild to dead

284

O may the rascal have his portion
& par boild be wis hellish notion
When like a chauldron boils the ocean
Wi judgments flame
Who mixes thee wi potiond lotion
& blasts thy fame

Theres many a sign the fool entices
To drink forgd ale at cheapnd prices
Or jollop juice or ointment slices
For strength wit dealt
What—satans sen the king o vices
Woud shame to tellt

O ale thou strengthen up my song
Wi but one quart of stingo strong
Ill lash the knave woud do thee wrong
Wi ryhming gall
& were I parl'ments lists among
L---d help his fall

Wi w---les leave &s 'viser d---w
Lud how Id sneckle out his craw
Id be jack ketch the noose to draw
Oer forgers face
Id make his squeak the pains o law
‘O woes my case’

285

Brave cordial bless thy honest maker
At Stamford town old tantey baker
Sells juice o thine woud cure the ague
A tartan stroke
A quarts gen manys legs a shaker
& mine its broke

Ah that I ha'nt a pen to scrawl
Like burns's wiskey quill wi all
Now I ha namd ‘th'hole i'th' wall’
Much mores the pity
Theres none throught stamford but shoud call
I'bakers gitty

However as the widows mite
Wher provd as goods the highest quite
Ill be for once the strangers light
& this declare
If ye want beer to set ye right
Spend tenpence there

O ale O ale thou nut brown charm
While tenpence I in fob can farm
& that will buy a quart thy balm
& pipe to boot
While fate smiles thus Ill take no harm
Tho rag'ds a coot

286

& did the soldier love his king
As I love thee thou darling thing
Theyd drive all foes the world shoud bring
Like chaff away
& hell himself shoud meet a ding
At the last day

O quart me wi this charming stush
Ill sing & whistle like a thrush
Gi kings men ale their foes will brush
Like flies away
Een nickeys troops woud meet a push
At the last day