Cavalier Ballad; Alexander Brome, 1646
Come pass about the bowl to me,|
A health to our distressed King;
Though we're in hold let cups go free,
Birds in a cage may freely sing.
The ground does tipple healths afar
When storms do fall, and shall not we?
A sorrow dares not show its face
When we are ships, and sack's the sea.
2. Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing;
3. We do not suffer here alone,|
Though we are beggar'd, so's the King;
'Tis sin t' have wealth when he has none,
Tush! poverty's a royal thing!
When we are larded well with drink,
Our head shall turn as round as theirs,
Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink
Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.
4. Fill this unnatural quart with sack,
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