Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||
York-shire Ale.
1
How now Old Tyke of YorkHast thou got neither Cork
Nor yet convenient Wedges?
Thy wylie wort alas
Makes us all manners pass
And mount it o're the hedges.
2
That men should sit and fuddleIn such a sink of puddle,
And to and fro so put her!
Just such Ambrosia sucks
A Company of Ducks
Out of a filthy gutter.
3
For my part I'le get baytAnd in my Belly lay't,
Having drunk this dirty floud
What e're my Palate feels
There cannot but be Eels,
Where there is so much mud.
15
4
Doubtless the men are madWhere water may be had
To soop such nasty gore:
Some call't a remedy
Against the Stone, but I
Have laid a stone at Door.
Poems by Matthew Stevenson | ||