 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
No. 13 - The Alderman's Song
| Shelton: | What craven dares to talk of his home Ere the last of the cask is gone? Here! Bring me a stoup with a crown of foam, I shall stay where I am for one! For the morning brings a host of things That a man is better without; An aching head with a craving for bed, Or a foot with a touch of the gout! Let the moon to her bed disappear, And the sun in the heaven shine clear, While each bold apprentice boy Goes a seeking of his joy At the bottom of his jug of beer! |
| Men: | Let the moon to her bed disappear, And the sun in the heaven shine clear, While each bold apprentice boy Goes a seeking of his joy At the bottom of his jug of beer! |
| Shelton: | Some praise the wine of the Frenchman's vine, With its colour of ruby red; Or a draught divine from the German Rhine, And of both there is much to be said. But I venture to think that an Englishman's drink Should smack of no foreign salt! And a London lad should be only too glad To stick to his hops and malt! Let the moon to her bed disappear, And the sun in the heaven shine clear, While each bold apprentice boy Goes a seeking of his joy At the bottom of his jug of beer! |
| Men: | Let the moon to her bed disappear, And the sun in the heaven shine clear, While each bold apprentice boy Goes a seeking of his joy At the bottom of his jug of beer! |
 |
 |
 |
Page created 18 September 2016 .