Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
To Tom. Sharington, Commendations to mine Hostess, where his Mare was at Cure.
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Poems | ||
To Tom. Sharington, Commendations to mine Hostess, where his Mare was at Cure.
Commend us (Tom) to all at Bale,
Where once we drank a Cup of Ale.
How does your good old friend there fare,
Sh'has been a Mother to your Mare;
You may remember who I mean,
In truth, I have forgot her clean.
Forget her clean, how can I too.
Whom clean indeed I never knew.
Or, if I ever did, 'tis yet
So long ago, I may forget.
I know not but she may be clean,
By this, for she was washing then.
And, if she be not; No way but
To give her over for a Slut.
And when e'er her washing's done,
Hang her and let her cloaths alone.
Where once we drank a Cup of Ale.
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Sh'has been a Mother to your Mare;
You may remember who I mean,
In truth, I have forgot her clean.
Forget her clean, how can I too.
Whom clean indeed I never knew.
Or, if I ever did, 'tis yet
So long ago, I may forget.
I know not but she may be clean,
By this, for she was washing then.
And, if she be not; No way but
To give her over for a Slut.
And when e'er her washing's done,
Hang her and let her cloaths alone.
Do you not call to mind the Kitchin,
My Landlady sate like a Witch in.
There where we did Mundungo smoak,
No Guynie Pepper wou'd so choak;
Nothing (except her Washbowl) could;
A sense-confusion with it hold.
You know the Cellar's just between,
Kitching and Stable, there I mean.
There where your eye-sore Mare turn'd taile,
Upon the bowsing Tub of Ale;
And with her launt did it supply,
Fast as mine Hostess drew it dry.
Where she did batten on the dung,
And bake it for a good Ale Bung.
O! if you chance pass by her Door,
I prithee (Tom) commend me to her:
And send me word next Post, that I may tell
Our Mother Damnable, her Sisters well.
My Landlady sate like a Witch in.
There where we did Mundungo smoak,
No Guynie Pepper wou'd so choak;
Nothing (except her Washbowl) could;
A sense-confusion with it hold.
You know the Cellar's just between,
Kitching and Stable, there I mean.
There where your eye-sore Mare turn'd taile,
Upon the bowsing Tub of Ale;
And with her launt did it supply,
Fast as mine Hostess drew it dry.
Where she did batten on the dung,
And bake it for a good Ale Bung.
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I prithee (Tom) commend me to her:
And send me word next Post, that I may tell
Our Mother Damnable, her Sisters well.
Poems | ||