The Welshmans Song, in Praise of Wales
I’s not come here to tauke of Prut,
From whence the Welse dos take hur root;
Nor tell long Pedegree of Prince Camber,
Whose linage would fill full a Chamber,
Nor sing the deeds of ould Saint Davie,
The Ursip of which would fill a Navie,
But hark me now for a liddell tales
Sall make a great deal to the creddit of Wales:
For her will tudge your eares,
With the praise of hur thirteen Seers,
And make you as clad and merry,
As fourteen pot of Perry.
’Tis true, was wear him Sherkin freize,
But what is that? we have store of seize, [i.e. cheese,]
And Got is plenty of Goats milk
That[,] sell him well[,] will buy him silk
Inough, to make him fine to quarrell
At Herford Sizes in new apparrell;
And get him as much green Melmet perhap,
Sall give it a face to his Monmouth Cap.
But then the ore of Lemster;
Py Cot is uver a Sempster;
That when he is spun, or did[,]
Yet match him with hir thrid.
Aull this the backs now, let us tell yee,
Of some provision for the belly:
As Kid and Goat, and great Goats Mother,
And Runt and Cow, and good Cows uther.
And once but tast on the Welse Mutton,
Your Englis Seeps not worth a button.
And then for your Fisse, shall choose it your disse,
Look but about, and there is a Trout,
A Salmon, Cot, or Chevin,
Will feed you six or seven,
As taull man as ever swagger
With Welse Club, and long dagger.
But all this while, was never think
A word in praise of our Welse drink:
And yet for aull that, is a Cup of Bragat,
Aull England Seer may cast his Cap at.
And what say you to Ale of Webly[?],
Toudge him as well, you’ll praise him trebly,
As well as Metheglin, or Syder, or Meath,
Sall sake it your dagger quite out o’ th seath.
And Oat-Cake of Guarthenion,
With a goodly Leek or Onion,
To give as sweet a rellis
As e’r did Harper Ellis.
And yet is nothing now all this,
If our Musicks we do misse;
Both Harps, and Pipes too; and the Crowd
Must aull come in, and tauk aloud,
As lowd as Bangu, Davies Bell,
Of which is no doubt you have hear tell:
As well as our lowder Wrexam Organ,
And rumbling Rocks in the Seer of Glamorgan;
Where look but in the ground there,
And you sall see a sound there:
That put her all to gedder,
Is sweet as measure pedder.
[Followed, in An Antidote, by the excellent poems, The Cavalier’s Complaint; to the tune of (Suckling’s) I’le tell thee, Dick, &c., with The Answer. For these, see Merry Drollery, Compleat, pp. 52-56, and 367.]:
[p. 52.]