CAST away care and sorrow, the cankerworm of the brain,
For he that cares for the morrow has spent a good day in vain,
And he's but an ass, and he's but an ass,
That drinks not, and drinks not again.

Wee count him a dangerous fellow, as any that lives in y^e state,
Who when his neighbours are mellow doth troble an addle pate,
With thinking too much, with thinking too much,
And all about living too late.

But he's the best husband that whistles whilst the merry plowe doth go,
Let the fool reap his Tares and Thistles, which in sadness he doth sowe,
We'l sing whilst [the] plowe, we'l sing whilst the plowe,
Is getting us Barley below.

And when it comes up anon after, we give it a gentle touch,
Of the purest purest watter, but faith it must not be too much,
For watter's the thing, for watter's the thing
Makes all fools even such.

Let our hostess fill up the flaggon, and let her good ail be brown,
And let it spitt fire like a draggon, till our heads be the wisest in town,
'Tis a life for a King, 'tis a life for a King,
To wear such another crown.

Any comments, errors or omissions gratefully received The Editor
HTML Transcription © F.Coakley , 2000