A wealthy Misers sonne, upon a day, [51.] Met a poore Youth, that did intreat and pray Something of Charitie in his distresse; Helpe Sir (quoth hee) one that is Fatherlesse, Sirrah (sayd hee) away, begone with speed, Ile helpe none such; thou art a Knave indeed: Dost thou complaine because thou wants a Father? Were it in my case I would rejoyce the rather; For if thy Father's death, cause thee repine, I would my Father had excused thine. The little Barly-Corne.[F. 73] Whose Properties and Vertues here, Shall plainly to the world appeare, And make you merry all the yeere. To the tune of _Stingo_ Come, and doe not musing stand, [55.] if thou the truth discerne, But take a full cup in thy hand, and thus begin to learne, Not of the earth, nor of the ayre, at evening or at morne, But, joviale boyes, your Christmas keep _with the little Barly-Corne_. [Illustration] It is the cunningst Alchymist, that ere was in the Land, Twill change your Mettle when it list in turning of a hand, Your blushing Gold to Silver wan, your Silver into Brasse, Twill turn a Taylor to a man _and a man into an ass_-- Twill make a poore man rich to hang a signe before his doore, And those that doe the Pitcher hang, tho rich, twill make them poore; Twill make the silliest poorest Snake[F. 74] the King's great Porter[F. 75] scorne; Twill make the stoutest Lubber weak, _this little Barley Corne_. It hath more shifts than _Lambe_[F. 76] ere had, or _Hocus Pocus_ too, It will good fellowes shew more sport than _Bankes_[F. 77] his horse could doe: Twill play you faire above the boord, unless you take good heed, And fell you though you were a Lord, _and iustifie the deed_. It lends more yeeres unto old Age, than ere was lent by Nature, It makes the Poet's fancy rage, more than Castalian water; Twill make a Huntsman chase a Fox, and never winde his Horn, Twill cheere a Tinker in the stockes, _this little Barly-Corne_. It is the only Will o' th' wispe which leades men from the way, Twill make the tongue ti'd Lawyer lisp and naught but (hic-up) say. Twill make the Steward droope and stoop his Bils he then will scorne, And at each post cast his reckning up, _this little Barly-Corne_. Twill make a man grow jealous soone, whose pretty Wife goes trim, And raile at the deceiving Moone for making hornes at him: Twill make the Maidens trimly dance, and take it in no scorne, And helpe them to a friend by chance; _this little Barly-Corne_. It is the neatest Serving man to entertaine a friend, It will doe more than money can, all iarring suits to end: There's life in it, and it is here, 'tis here within this Cup, Then take your liquor; doe not spare, _but cleare carouse it up_.