A TAVERN LILT

I DO not know more wonderful respite Than to sit within the Inns of swinkèd lords With a mate upon the left hand and the right And tankards of good ale upon the boards. My lads, the World for us when we’re in yoke— To Hell and through to Heaven twice a day; While Lancashire’s a splendid land for folk Who’d woo a lass or taste a knuckled fray. And when we’re free, with Freedom’s cap fast on, How shall we bend new lives to jollity? What songs our Will and Tom would you have won Making the home-thatch rich for you and me? Our Will, you’re young—the lathe you scorn to turn— And sorrow life is not all Wigan Fair; While I’d seek luck beside a gipsy’s burn With a brace of whippets for a rabbits snare. And you, Tom, you—what would you draw for prize? A quickened pulse for the lass within your arms— With her to walk i’ the lanes at the moon’s rise, By the downland’s edge and over the sleeping farms. My mates, you’re English and o’ the very best— With no mean thought i’ the length or breadth o’ you: Not Galahads, but yet to stand confessed With finest hearts as ever heroes knew. Because o’ simple, wide, and proudest worth As English soil may give to English rule. My head is bared before your richened birth, My hand grips yours in cider-time and Yule! And so again—more wonderful respite I know not in the Inns of swinkèd lords, With you upon my left hand and my right And plenty of good ale upon the boards! A health, a health, my lads, for very joy! With such as you beside for love and life We can with ease Dame Sorrowful destroy; E’en toast the maid who will not be my wife!