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The Toper's Rant
THE TOPER'S RANT
By John Clare (1793-1864)
Come, come, my old crones and gay fellows That love to drink ale in a horn, We'll sing racy songs now we're mellow Which topers sung ere we were born. For our bottle kind fate shall be thanked, And line but our pockets with brass, We'll sooner suck ale through a blanket Than thimbles of wine from a glass.
Away with your proud thimble glasses Of wine foreign nations supply, We topers ne'er drink to the lasses Over draughts scarce enough for a fly. Club us with the hedger and ditcher Or beggar that makes his own horn, To join us o'er bottle or pitcher Foaming o'er with the essence of corn.
We care not with whom we get tipsy Or where with brown stout we regale, We'll weather the storm with a gipsy If he be a lover of ale. We'll weather the toughest storm weary Although we get wet to the skin, If outside our cottage looks dreary We're warm and right happy within.
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