The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy Prose and Verse [by Edward Ward] |
 |
AN ELEGY UPON Gammar Bouncly,
A most Famous Breweress of Noble Ale in the
Peak in Derbyshire.
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 | The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy |  |
171
AN ELEGY UPON Gammar Bouncly, A most Famous Breweress of Noble Ale in the Peak in Derbyshire.
Who unfortunately smoother'd herself in her own Mashing Tub. Written in Burlesque of a Bombast Pastoral, upon the Death of a Beautiful Lady of considerable Quality.
Help me ye Mid-night Hags to sing the Praise,
Of Bouncly and her Ale in bouncing Lays;
Not in soft whining Numbers only fit
To make the Dust of Quality smell sweet;
Flattery's a fulsom mercenary Theme,
And seldome worth a generous Poet's Dream:
Assist me so to temper e'ery Line,
That Wit and Mirth with equal Pow'r may shine,
And raise at once old Bouncly's Fame and mine.
Of Bouncly and her Ale in bouncing Lays;
Not in soft whining Numbers only fit
To make the Dust of Quality smell sweet;
Flattery's a fulsom mercenary Theme,
And seldome worth a generous Poet's Dream:
172
That Wit and Mirth with equal Pow'r may shine,
And raise at once old Bouncly's Fame and mine.
Mourn all ye Sots around the Devil's Arse,
Drink first and then attend the Gammar's Hearse,
Charge your capacious Bellies to the Brim,
Till Guts and Brains in windy Bladders swim,
Huge swelling Bumpers down your Gullets throw,
Till, like your Cups, you're ready to o'erflow;
And when with Barley Juice you're charg'd thus high,
And like ripe Bottl'd Ale, just fit to fly,
Attend the Matron to her final Home,
And spew your Sorrow out on Bouncly's Tomb,
Bouncly, that merry Gossip who so oft,
At Comick Tale and Bawdy Jest, has laugh'd;
Bouncly, who many a youthful Swain has eas'd,
And in her Cock-loft, jolly Tinker pleas'd;
Bouncly, who us'd, with Lov's delighted Sport,
To pay her Maltster when her Coin fell short;
Nor would she put young Lovers to the Toil,
Of walking to their Jugs or Joans a Mile,
When her soft Liquor had inflam'd their Hearts,
And rais'd a Fever in their nobler Parts,
But always was so kind (her Name be prais'd)
To cool that heat her pow'rful Ale had rais'd,
Till feeble Hob, tho just before so stout,
Should want more Drink instead of t'other Bout;
For skilful Smocksters, least Experience lies,
Tell us that Love's a drowthy Exercise.
Drink first and then attend the Gammar's Hearse,
Charge your capacious Bellies to the Brim,
Till Guts and Brains in windy Bladders swim,
Huge swelling Bumpers down your Gullets throw,
Till, like your Cups, you're ready to o'erflow;
And when with Barley Juice you're charg'd thus high,
And like ripe Bottl'd Ale, just fit to fly,
Attend the Matron to her final Home,
And spew your Sorrow out on Bouncly's Tomb,
Bouncly, that merry Gossip who so oft,
At Comick Tale and Bawdy Jest, has laugh'd;
Bouncly, who many a youthful Swain has eas'd,
And in her Cock-loft, jolly Tinker pleas'd;
Bouncly, who us'd, with Lov's delighted Sport,
To pay her Maltster when her Coin fell short;
173
Of walking to their Jugs or Joans a Mile,
When her soft Liquor had inflam'd their Hearts,
And rais'd a Fever in their nobler Parts,
But always was so kind (her Name be prais'd)
To cool that heat her pow'rful Ale had rais'd,
Till feeble Hob, tho just before so stout,
Should want more Drink instead of t'other Bout;
For skilful Smocksters, least Experience lies,
Tell us that Love's a drowthy Exercise.
O Mourn her fatal Loss, ye am'rous Swains,
That guard your Flocks upon the neighb'ring Plains.
Mourn all ye painful Coridons around,
That trim the Woods and cultivate the Ground;
Lament ye Clowns, in Sheep-skin Breeches clad,
For none but you that knew the buxom Jade
Can miss the Charms the merry Beldame had.
That guard your Flocks upon the neighb'ring Plains.
Mourn all ye painful Coridons around,
That trim the Woods and cultivate the Ground;
Lament ye Clowns, in Sheep-skin Breeches clad,
For none but you that knew the buxom Jade
Can miss the Charms the merry Beldame had.
Such Ale as hers, so exquisitely good.
Was ne'er before in brazen Vessel brew'd,
So rich, so stout, so knappy and so fine,
So Nectar like, so racy and divine,
That ev'n the Vicar, who the Parish taught,
Drank, e'er he Preach'd, a Flagon at a Draught,
When thus inspir'd, he mounted up aloft,
And made good Christians more by Ale than Craft.
Was ne'er before in brazen Vessel brew'd,
174
So Nectar like, so racy and divine,
That ev'n the Vicar, who the Parish taught,
Drank, e'er he Preach'd, a Flagon at a Draught,
When thus inspir'd, he mounted up aloft,
And made good Christians more by Ale than Craft.
The Whist'ling Plow-man labour'd hard all Day,
And gladly took much Pains for little Pay,
T'enjoy the kind Refreshment and Delight
Of Bouncly's Ale and merry Tales at Night.
Bouncly, whose Charms, whose Liquor and whose Fire,
Would warm the Codpiece and the Brain inspire,
And make a Man at once, when o'er his Pot,
A standing Lover and a sitting Sot.
And gladly took much Pains for little Pay,
T'enjoy the kind Refreshment and Delight
Of Bouncly's Ale and merry Tales at Night.
Bouncly, whose Charms, whose Liquor and whose Fire,
Would warm the Codpiece and the Brain inspire,
And make a Man at once, when o'er his Pot,
A standing Lover and a sitting Sot.
O what a Blessing has the Country lost.
No Hostess brew'd such Ale or bak'd such Toast,
Or could the buxom'st Beldame on the Road
Have softer Flesh or better furbilo'd;
If those kind Fuddle-caps declare the Truth,
Who knew her in her Age as well as Youth,
For tho Time's Sickle mows away the Hair,
And leaves the Crown of wither'd Beauty bare,
And in declining Years his Spite to show,
Causes an Autumn in the Shades below;
Yet Bouncly was at Fifty brisk and gay,
And wore no wrinkled Symtoms of Decay,
Nor did she ever want from Heel to Head,
The blooming Vigour of a youthful Maid,
But am'rous were her Looks and kind her Heart,
Hairy her Crown and fledg'd in e'ery Part,
That none could tell i'th dark, I dare engage,
Whether Fifteen or Fifty was her Age,
So round her Breasts, so brawny was her Bum,
Such wirey Plumes adorn'd her M---m,
That had young Paris been to judge the same,
He'ad baulk'd young Venus of her Beauty's Fame,
And given the Golden Apple to the Dame.
No Hostess brew'd such Ale or bak'd such Toast,
Or could the buxom'st Beldame on the Road
Have softer Flesh or better furbilo'd;
If those kind Fuddle-caps declare the Truth,
Who knew her in her Age as well as Youth,
175
And leaves the Crown of wither'd Beauty bare,
And in declining Years his Spite to show,
Causes an Autumn in the Shades below;
Yet Bouncly was at Fifty brisk and gay,
And wore no wrinkled Symtoms of Decay,
Nor did she ever want from Heel to Head,
The blooming Vigour of a youthful Maid,
But am'rous were her Looks and kind her Heart,
Hairy her Crown and fledg'd in e'ery Part,
That none could tell i'th dark, I dare engage,
Whether Fifteen or Fifty was her Age,
So round her Breasts, so brawny was her Bum,
Such wirey Plumes adorn'd her M---m,
That had young Paris been to judge the same,
He'ad baulk'd young Venus of her Beauty's Fame,
And given the Golden Apple to the Dame.
Then what kind vigorous Coridon that loves
A Female Skin as white as Juno's Doves,
And all the other Graces that belong
To an old Widow, buxom as a Young,
Can close his Heart and not bewail the loss
Of her who gave what others sell for Dross,
For no Man's Worth she measur'd by his Purse,
But lik'd him best that most was like a Horse,
He that without a Spur three Heats would run,
And never sweat but neigh when he had done.
O mourn the Loss of such a gen'rous Dame,
Who never kindled but she cool'd the Flame,
And by the Water-Engine in her Tail.
Conquer'd the Fire of Love or that of Ale.
A Female Skin as white as Juno's Doves,
And all the other Graces that belong
To an old Widow, buxom as a Young,
176
Of her who gave what others sell for Dross,
For no Man's Worth she measur'd by his Purse,
But lik'd him best that most was like a Horse,
He that without a Spur three Heats would run,
And never sweat but neigh when he had done.
O mourn the Loss of such a gen'rous Dame,
Who never kindled but she cool'd the Flame,
And by the Water-Engine in her Tail.
Conquer'd the Fire of Love or that of Ale.
O with what Art and Caution did she brew,
Her oily Stingo which she never drew
One Day too stale, or yet an hour too new,
But always tap'd the Cordial when 'twas time,
And seldom kept one Drop beyond its Prime,
But rather to her Swine the Swill convey'd,
Than suffer'd Men to drink it when decay'd,
Thus, as the mumping Wretch who stroles and progs:
Throws out his musty Fragments to the Dogs,
So with sour Ale she merry made her Hogs:
But what she sold, such Strength and Vigour had,
Twould make a Saint run Copulation mad,
Nay, such prolifick Vertues in it dwelt,
'Twould find a Man new Dowsets that was gelt.
And make bald Age as juvenile and gay,
As an old Stallion in the Month of May.
The Town wherein she liv'd with Children swarm'd,
Got when their Parents with her Ale were warm'd,
With Milk the Mothers Nipples it supply'd,
And did for all the swaddled Young provide;
Thus did her Ale beget the Brats, and then,
From sucking Infants rais'd 'em to be Men,
For by the Laws of Nature, e'ery thing
Should nourish that which from it self does spring.
Her oily Stingo which she never drew
One Day too stale, or yet an hour too new,
But always tap'd the Cordial when 'twas time,
And seldom kept one Drop beyond its Prime,
But rather to her Swine the Swill convey'd,
Than suffer'd Men to drink it when decay'd,
Thus, as the mumping Wretch who stroles and progs:
Throws out his musty Fragments to the Dogs,
So with sour Ale she merry made her Hogs:
177
Twould make a Saint run Copulation mad,
Nay, such prolifick Vertues in it dwelt,
'Twould find a Man new Dowsets that was gelt.
And make bald Age as juvenile and gay,
As an old Stallion in the Month of May.
The Town wherein she liv'd with Children swarm'd,
Got when their Parents with her Ale were warm'd,
With Milk the Mothers Nipples it supply'd,
And did for all the swaddled Young provide;
Thus did her Ale beget the Brats, and then,
From sucking Infants rais'd 'em to be Men,
For by the Laws of Nature, e'ery thing
Should nourish that which from it self does spring.
Thus did her Ale make every Husband kind,
And loving Help-mate, fruitful to her Mind,
Nay, Boar and Sow, without the help of Pees,
Ow'd all their grunting Offspring to her Lees;
Thus Boys and Girls, and Pigs and Hogs as well,
That did around her boozing Cottage dwell,
Were all descended from my Gammar's Ale.
But now no more shall Roger tug his Bride,
At Christmas, Easter, or at Whitsontide,
To Mother Bouncly's Hut, to merry make,
O'er knappy Ale, hot butter'd Buns and Cake,
For at good Times 'tis to be understood,
The careful Housewife bak'd as well as brew'd,
But now, alass, into the Grave she's tost,
And in her Death the Art of Brewing's lost,
So when old Dorba perish'd in her Cell,
With her the Pow'r of Conjuration fell;
None in those early and unskilfull Days,
But her deep Magick could a Samuel raise,
So none in this dull Age, without Default,
Can raise such Ale as Bouncly did from Malt,
Bouncly, who all Loves nicest Secrets knew,
And taught the Maids to kiss and Men to woo;
Instructed Bashful Brides ith' Nuptial Arts,
And taught both Sexes how to act their Parts;
A thousand other charming Nacks she had
To make young Lovers for each other mad:
Yet to inflame the Heart, or warm the Tail,
Us'd no Love-Potion but her own good Ale.
And loving Help-mate, fruitful to her Mind,
Nay, Boar and Sow, without the help of Pees,
Ow'd all their grunting Offspring to her Lees;
Thus Boys and Girls, and Pigs and Hogs as well,
That did around her boozing Cottage dwell,
Were all descended from my Gammar's Ale.
178
At Christmas, Easter, or at Whitsontide,
To Mother Bouncly's Hut, to merry make,
O'er knappy Ale, hot butter'd Buns and Cake,
For at good Times 'tis to be understood,
The careful Housewife bak'd as well as brew'd,
But now, alass, into the Grave she's tost,
And in her Death the Art of Brewing's lost,
So when old Dorba perish'd in her Cell,
With her the Pow'r of Conjuration fell;
None in those early and unskilfull Days,
But her deep Magick could a Samuel raise,
So none in this dull Age, without Default,
Can raise such Ale as Bouncly did from Malt,
Bouncly, who all Loves nicest Secrets knew,
And taught the Maids to kiss and Men to woo;
Instructed Bashful Brides ith' Nuptial Arts,
And taught both Sexes how to act their Parts;
A thousand other charming Nacks she had
To make young Lovers for each other mad:
Yet to inflame the Heart, or warm the Tail,
Us'd no Love-Potion but her own good Ale.
179
O wicked Planets to decree so hard
A Fate, at last, to be the Dame's Reward.
That she who had so long her Love diffus'd,
Should by her Stars be so severely us'd;
And be so basely to her end betray'd,
By Ale, that Creature which her self had made.
For on a drouthy Day (O Curse the Time)
When Sol's Ignescent Beams had scorch'd our Clime,
And the kind Dame as she was wont to do,
Had hung her largest Kettle on to Brew,
And plac'd her Vessels round her to provide
Plenty of Ale against a Merry-Tide:
For Bouncly's Orchard, and her old Thatch'd House,
Were at such Times the Gen'ral Rendezvous;
Where tuneful Ballads grac'd her ancient Hut,
And blooming Crab-trees made a Grove without,
Where Rural Clowns their Active Members try'd,
And shew'd their Vigour in my Dame's Backside.
But oh that fatal Day wherein she fell
A parboil'd Victim to unfinish'd Ale:
For bustling 'twixt her Kettle and her Tub,
To improve Malt and Water into Bub;
Swelter'd with Toil, Hot Weather, and the Fire,
Much Ale her drouthy Entrails did require;
So that oft sipping to repleat her Veins,
Cool her parch'd Liver, and to ease her Pains,
The Potent Tipple did at last prevail,
And standing o'er her Tub to lant her Ale,
The careless giddy Dame, as Fame reports,
Pitch'd her poor Head into her seething Worts:
Where she at once expir'd without a Squeak,
And drown'd the greatest Wonder of the Peak.
So fell Old Bouncly, by her Ale o'ercome,
And made her fatal Mashing Fat her Tomb.
Thus by her own vile Creature was she hurl'd
Headlong whilst Brewing to the other World.
Just like the Monk, who was to Hell betray'd,
By the same Powder he himself had made.
A Fate, at last, to be the Dame's Reward.
That she who had so long her Love diffus'd,
Should by her Stars be so severely us'd;
And be so basely to her end betray'd,
By Ale, that Creature which her self had made.
For on a drouthy Day (O Curse the Time)
When Sol's Ignescent Beams had scorch'd our Clime,
And the kind Dame as she was wont to do,
Had hung her largest Kettle on to Brew,
And plac'd her Vessels round her to provide
Plenty of Ale against a Merry-Tide:
For Bouncly's Orchard, and her old Thatch'd House,
Were at such Times the Gen'ral Rendezvous;
Where tuneful Ballads grac'd her ancient Hut,
And blooming Crab-trees made a Grove without,
Where Rural Clowns their Active Members try'd,
And shew'd their Vigour in my Dame's Backside.
But oh that fatal Day wherein she fell
A parboil'd Victim to unfinish'd Ale:
180
To improve Malt and Water into Bub;
Swelter'd with Toil, Hot Weather, and the Fire,
Much Ale her drouthy Entrails did require;
So that oft sipping to repleat her Veins,
Cool her parch'd Liver, and to ease her Pains,
The Potent Tipple did at last prevail,
And standing o'er her Tub to lant her Ale,
The careless giddy Dame, as Fame reports,
Pitch'd her poor Head into her seething Worts:
Where she at once expir'd without a Squeak,
And drown'd the greatest Wonder of the Peak.
So fell Old Bouncly, by her Ale o'ercome,
And made her fatal Mashing Fat her Tomb.
Thus by her own vile Creature was she hurl'd
Headlong whilst Brewing to the other World.
Just like the Monk, who was to Hell betray'd,
By the same Powder he himself had made.
Weep Hogs and Porkers, from your Dunghils rouze,
And grunt your Pity o'er your empty Troughs.
Mourn all you Piping Corydons and Swains,
That such a Buxom Dame, who spar'd no Pains
To live by Ale, should Die at last in Grains.
And grunt your Pity o'er your empty Troughs.
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That such a Buxom Dame, who spar'd no Pains
To live by Ale, should Die at last in Grains.
| The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy | |