THE DEFIANCE OF SIR JOHN BARLEYCORNE.
‘Twas stalwart Sir John Barleycorne,
And he satte in his elbowe-chaire,
With his milk-white creste of the foamynge yeaste,
And his corselette of pewter fayre.
On either hande a valiaunte bande,
Yellade in wood and glasse, -
Sir Porter le Perkins, Sir Stoute de Meux,
Pale Alsoppe and bitter Basse.
And the Guinesse of Dublin, briske and brighte,
As an Irish kern mote be:
Ans Sir Ale de Alloa, Scotland’s Knyghte,
A headie knyghte was he!
And aye they laughed and aye they quaffed,
The colde and syne the hotte,
And with crabs aroaste, and the spicie toaste,
They passed aboute the potte.
When in there came a little foote page -
Small Beere of Romforde towne,
And unto Sir John de Barleycorne
Righte lowlie louted down.
“Now newes! now newes! Sir John,” he saide,
“Now newes of dole and feare:
That Basse to knowe more bitter will growe,
Browne Stoute turn pale to heare!
“Fair England’s strande from thy stout hande
There are knaves would fain see torne;
And De Vin’s French race set up in the place,
Of Sir John be Barleycorne!
“From cellar and tappe they would ouste thy sappe,
Till thou thy place foregoe
To the fierie stock of Burgundie,
And the thinne bloode of Bordeaux.”
Then uppe sprang stonte John Barleycorne,
And upon the boarde smote he,
That glasses rang and pewters did clang,
And the foame flew merrilie.
“Now by the sugar of malte,” quoth he,
“And the bitter of hoppe, I vowe,
While there’s water in Trent and kilns in Kent,
And graine in the Barley-mow,-
“While there is virtue in British befee,
And fogge in British aire -
So long as Britayne’s sons are stoute,
And Britayne’s daughters faire-
“So long as ‘Rule Britannia’ ’s sung,
And eke ‘God Save the Queene,’
So long shall the bloode of Barleycorne
Be here what it hath been!
“A fig for the thinne and hungrie draffe
Of the Loire and the Garonne;
For the frothy strain of brisk Champagne,
And the soure-faced growthe of Yonne!
“Let them come in their bilious bottle-greene,
With their long corke shakos crowned;
The skinny Mounseers will give their eares,
They had ne’er touched British grounde.
“Their corkes we’ll drawe, their bottles we’ll flawe,
Were we but one to tenne;
The British floode shall drinke their bloode,
But never ye Britishe menne!
‘Sour growthes and smalle, come one, come all,
Your inroade we defie!
The fewe of ye sea-sicknesse spares,
In bonde full long shall lie.”
John Barleycorne hath ta;en his casque,
And sounded his humming horn;
And his stalwart kinne come trooping in,
By blacke dray-horses borne.
Burton hath sent from banks of Trent,
Her pale and bitter broode,
And London her route, both heavy and stoute,
Dark-faced and stronge of mood.
From those the triple crosse that weare
In token of commande,
To the smallest of small beers that beare
Romford’s or Chiswick’s brande.
Barclay’s strong draught, and Meux’s best,
And Courage’s Entire;
And Philipps’ and Wigan’s mild old ales,
Yet nursing youthful fire-
“Sounde trumpets,” quoth John Barleycorne,
“Sounde cymbal and kettle-drum,
Now bid advance the growthe of France-
Let rot-gutte Gallia come!”
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