In the _Roxburghe Collection_ are nineteen ballads by Lawrence Price, a celebrated writer of the time of Charles I. He wrote chap-books, riddles, and political squibs in rhyme. The following rollicking drinking song is from his pen. Only one copy of it is known to be in existence. GOOD ALE FOR MY MONEY. The Good-fellowes resolution of strong Ale, That cures his nose from looking pale. To the tune of _The Countrey Lasse_. [Illustration] {318} Be merry my friends, and list a while unto a merry jest, It may from you produce a smile when you hear it exprest, Of a younge man lately married, which was a boone good fellow, This song in ’s head he alwaies carried, when drinke had made him mellow, I cannot go home, nor I will not go home its long of the oyle of Barly; Ile tarry all night for my delight, and go home in the morning early. No tapster stout, or Vintner fine quoth he shall euer get One groat out of this purse of mine to pay his master’s debt: Why should I deal with sharking Rookes, that seeke poore gulls to cozen, To giue twelue pence for a quart of wine, of ale ’twill buy a dozen. ’Twill make me sing, I cannot, &c. The old renowned Ipocrist and Raspie doth excell, But neuer any wine could yet my honour please to swell, The Rhenish wine or Muskadine, sweet Malmsie is too fulsome No giue me a cup of Barlie broth, for that is very wholesome, ’Twill make me sing, I cannot, &c. Hot waters ar to me as death, and soone the head oreturneth, And Nectar hath so strong a breath Canary when it burneth, It cures no paine but breaks the braine, and raps out oaths and curses, And makes men part with heauiy heart, but light it makes their purses, I cannot go home, &c. {319} Some say Metheglin beares the name, with Perry and sweet Sider, ’Twill bring the body out of frame, and reach the belly wider Which to preuent I am content with ale that’s good and nappie, And when thereof I haue enough I thinke myself most happy. I cannot go home, &c. All sorts of men when they do meet both trade and occupation, With curtesie each other greet, and kinde humiliation; A good coale fire is their desire, whereby to sit and parly Theyle drink their ale and tell a tale, and go home in the morning early. I cannot go home, &c. Your domineering swaggering blades, and caualiers that flashes, That throw the Jugs against the walls and break in peeces glasses When Bacchus round cannot be found they will in merriment Drinke ale and beere and cast of care and sing with one consent I cannot goe home, &c. The title-page of the following poem tells its history:—