* * * * * Whose properties and vertues here Shall plainly to the world appeare; To make you merry all the yeere. To the tune of _Stingo_. [Illustration] {304} Come, and doe not musing stand, 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 joviall boys your Christmas keep _with the Little Barley-corn_. It is the cunningst alchymist that e’re 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 asse_. ’Twill make a poore man rich to hang a sign before his doore; And those that doe the pitcher bang, though rich, ’twill make them poor, ’Twill make the silliest poorest snake the King’s great Porter scorne; ’Twill make the stoutest lubber weak, _this little Barley-Corn_. It hath more shifts than Lambe ere had, or _Hocus-pocus_ too; It will good fellowes shew more sport then _Bankes_ his horse could doe; ’Twill play you faire above the boord, unlesse you take good heed, And fell you, though you were a Lord, _and justify 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. {305} ’Twill make a huntsman chase a fox, and never winde his horne; ’Twill cheer a tinker in the stockes, _this little barley-corn_. It is the only Will o’ th’ Wisp which leades men from the way; ’Twill make the tongue-ti’d lawyer lisp, and nought but (hic up) say. ’Twill make the Steward droope and stoop, his bils he then will scorne, And at each post cast his reckoning up, _this little barley-corn_. ’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 barley-corn_. It is the neatest serving-man, to entertaine a friend; It will doe more than money can all jarring 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_. To this ballad there is a second part to much the same effect. We give the illustration and a few verses. Both parts are in the _Roxburghe Collection_. The Second Part of the Little Barley-corne That cheereth the heart both evening and morne. _To the same tune._ {306} [Illustration] If sicknesse come, this physick take, it from your heart will set it; If feare incroach, take more of it, your head will soone forget it; Apollo, and the Muses nine, doe take it in no scorne; There’s no such stuffe to passe the time _as the little Barley-corne_.