And looked like a tattered rogue,
With ne're a rag on's backe.

"Give me my money back againe,
Thou slave," the butcher said,

"Or I will see your devill's heart,
Before he can be laid:

He gets not back againe to hell,
Ere I my mony have

And I will have some intrest too,
Besides mine own I gave.

Deliver first mine owne ten groats,
And then a crowne to boote:

I smell your devils knavery out,
He wants a cloven foote."

66

Farewell, most scurvy conjuror,

Thinke on my valiant deed,

Which has done more then English George,

That made the dragon bleed:

He and his horse, the story tells,

Did but a serpent slay:

I and my dog the devill spoild,
We two have got the day."

B

FROM GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE.]

ACK and syde go bare, go bare,

Booth foote and hande go colde;

But, belly, God sende thee good ale ynoughe,
Whether it be newe or old.

I can not eate but lytle meat,

My stomacke is not goode;
But, sure, I think that I can drynk,
With him that weares a hood.
Thoughe I go bare, take ye no care,

I am nothinge a-colde;

I stuffe my skyn so full within,
Of joly good ale and olde.

Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c.

I love no rost, but a nut-brown toste
And a crab layde in the fyre;
A lytle bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I not desyre.

No froste nor snow, no winde, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wolde,

I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt,
Of joly good ale and old.

Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c.

And Tyb, my wyfe, that, as her lyfe,
Loveth well good ale to seeke,
Full ofte drinkes shee, tyll ye may see
The teares run doun her cheeke;
Then doth she trowle1 to mee the bowle,
Even as a malt worme shuld;
And sayth, Sweethart, I took my part
Of this joly good ale and olde.
Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c.

Now let them drynke tyll they nod and wynke
Even as good fellowes shoulde doe,
They shall not misse to have the blisse,

Good ale doth bringe men to;

And all poor soules that have scowred bowles

Or have them lustily trolde,

God gave the lyves of them and their wyves, Whether they be younge or olde.

Back and syde go bare, go bare,

But, belly, God sende thee good ale ynoughe,

Whether it be newe or old.

Pass.

WOW Town-wit sayes to witty friend,
"Transcribe apace all thou hast pen'd
For I in journey hold it fit,

To cry thee up to countrey-wit.

Our mules are come! dissolve the club!
The word, till term, is, Rub, O rub!""

6

Now gamster poor, in cloak of stammel,1 Mounted on steed, as slow as cammel, Battoone of crab in luckless hand, (Which serves for bilboe and for wand) Early in morne does sneak from town, Least landlord's wife should seise on crown: On crown, which he in pouch does keep, When day is done, to pay for sleep;

For he in journey nought does eat.

Host spies him come, cryes," Sir, what meat?"