A Tankard Of Ale - online songbook

An Anthology Of 120 Drinking Song Lyrics

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Your Gaul may tipple his thin, thin wine, And pate of its hue and its fragrance fine,
Shall never a drop pass throat of mine again. His claret is meagre, but let trnt pass ; I can't say much for his hypocrass, And never more will I fill my glass
With cold champaign, His claret is meagre (but let that pass), And never more will I fill my glass With cold, with cold champaign,
With cold champaign, For, oh, I prefer a flagon of ale, ha ! ha ! Stout and old, ha ! ha ! and as amber pale, ha ! ha ! Which heart and head will alike assail. Ale, ale be mine Ale, ale, fine old English ale, ale, ale, Fine old English ale be mine.
By C. S. Calverley (i831-1884)
In those old days which poets say were golden— (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves :
And if they did, I'm all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
Who talk to me " in language quaint and olden " Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)
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