Come, Honest Boys

Ye who have nothing to conceal,

Come, honest boys, and drink with me;

Come, drink with me the sparkling ale,

And we’ll not whisper calumny,

But laugh with all the power we can;

But all pale schemers who incline

To rise above your fellow man,

Touch not the sparkling ale or wine.

Give me strong ale to fire my blood,

Content me with a lot that’s bad;

That is to me both drink and food,

And warms me though I am ill-clad;

A pot of ale, man owns the world:

The poet hears his songs all sung,

Inventor sees his patents sold,

The painter sees his pictures hung.

The creeds remind us oft of Death;

But man’s best creed is to forget

Death all the hours that he takes breath,

And quaff the sparkling ale, and let

Creeds shout until they burst their lungs;

For what is better than to be

A-drinking ale and singing songs,

In summer, under some green tree?