Tune, The Dusty Miller.
Goody Burton’s ale
Gets into my noddle,
’Tis so stout and pale,
It makes me widdle waddle;
When I came to ask,
Who the brewing taught her,
I found out each cask
Was brew’d by—Goody’s daughter.
Now I long’d to see
Goody’s buxom brewer,
Hoping I should be
The only one to woe her;
When I spoke her soft,
I meant not to fool her,
So I went aloft,
And warm’d her in the cooler.
Oh! what flesh and blood!
Malt, and hop, and water,
Are not near so good
As Goody Burton’s daughter;
I made her heart right glad,
For till I came across it,
She had never had
A spigot in her fauset.
Nightly at my door
Comes a gentle rapping,
’Tis Miss Burton sure,
Who wants her barrel tapping;
When her barrel’s tapp’d,
She with art and cunning,
Turns the patent cock,
And sets the liquor running.
Other folks I hear,
Pant for Betsy Burton,
But I’ve nought to fear,
So I let her flirt on;
If her cask runs low,
Slowly comes the liquor,
Betsy tilts it so,
And makes it come the quicker.
Mellow up and ripe,
I and Parson Cottle,
Sit behind a pipe,
And quaff the ale in bottle;
Goody Burton bye,
Sings to please the parson,
While Miss B. and I
Carry Nature’s—farce on.
By the yeast I swear,
Yielding fermentation,
To the home-brew’d beer,
The neighbour’s admiration,
This the maid will tell,
The Bard’s no bragging talker,
Like ale, to keep her well,
Well, by Jove,—I cork her.