The Mock Song

By T. J.  With a reply by Alex. Brome.—(A.D. 1657.)

Hold, hold, quaff no more,
   But restore
If you can what you’ve lost by your drinking:
      Three kingdoms and crowns,
      With their cities and towns,
   While the King and his progeny’s sinking.
The studs in your cheeks have obscured his star, boys,
Your drinking miscarriages in the late war, boys,
Have brought his prerogative now to the war, boys.

   Throw, throw down the glass!
      He’s an ass
   That extracts all his worth from Canary;
      That valour will shrink
      That’s only good in drink;
   ’Twas the cup made the camp to miscarry.
You thought in the world there’s no power could tame ye,
You tippled and whored till the foe overcame ye;
God’s nigs and Ne’er stir, sirs, has vanquish’d God damn me.

   Fly, fly from the coast,
      Or you’re lost,
   And the water will run where the drink went;
      From hence you must slink,
      If you have no chink,
   ’Tis the course of the royal delinquent;
You love to see beer-bowls turn’d over the thumb well,
You like three fair gamesters, four dice, and a drum well,
But you’d as lief see the devil as Fairfax or Cromwell.

   Drink, drink not the round,
      You’ll be drown’d
   In the source of your sack and your sonnets;
      Try once more your fate
      For the King against the State,
   And go barter your beavers for bonnets.
You see how they’re charm’d by the King’s enchanters,
And therefore pack hence to Virginia for planters,
For an act and two red-coats will rout all the ranters.