The Man in the Moon drinks Claret, As it was lately sung at the Curtain Holy well to the same tune.  
 

Bacchus' the Father of drunken nolls,  
Full mazer's Beakers Glasses bowls  
Greasy flap-dragons flemish upsy freeze  
With healths stabbed in arms upon naked knees  
Of all his wines he makes you tasters,  
So you tipple like Bumbasters.  
Drink till you réel a welcome he doth give,  
O how the boon Claret makes you live,  
Not a painter purer Colour shows,  
then what's laid on by Claret  
Pearl and ruby both set oot the nose  
when thin small béer doth mar it.  
Rich wine is good,  
It heats the blood,  
It makes an old man lusty,  
The young to brawl.  
And Drawers up call,  
Before being too much musty,  
Whether you drink all or little,  
Pot it so yourselves you whitle,  
Then thought twelve  
A clock it ●e  
Yet all the way go roaring,  
If the hand,  
Of bills cry stand.  
Sweats that you must a whore—  
Such Gambols, such tricks, such F●garies,  
We fetch though we touch no canaries,  
French wine till the welkin roars,  
And cry out a pox of your scores.   

In wine we call for bawdy jigs,  
Catzoes', Rumbiloes, Whirligigs,  
Crambo got in the huff-cap vain.  
The devil in the places you wot where reign  
Brave wine it is thus tickles our heels,  
Mulled well in wine none sorrow feels.  
Our Moon man and his Powder béef mad crew  
thus caper through the liquour sweet turnip drew  
Round about over tables and joined stools,  
Let's dance with naked Rapiers.  
Cut the fiddle strings and then like fools,  
kick out the fum fum scrapers,  
There is no sound,  
The cares can wound  
As lids of wine pots clinking  
There's no such sport  
When all amort  
Man cry let's fall to drinking,  
O 'tis nappy géer,  
would each belly was filled here  
Herrings pickeled  
Must be tickled,  
Down to draw the liquour,  
The salt Sammon  
And fat Gammon,  
Makes your wine drink quicker,  
Our man in the Moon drinks Claret,  
With Powder béef turnip and carrot,  
If he doth so why should not you  
Drink wine until the Sky looks blue,   

hay for a turn thus above ground hay,  
O my noddle too heavy doth way,  
Metheglin Perry cider nor strong Ale,  
Are half so heavy be they ne'er so stale  
Wine in our guts can never ruuthle,  
Down now and than though it make us stumble  
Yet scambling up a drunkard féels no pain  
But cries sirrah boy t'other pottle again,  
We can drink no more unless we have  
full pipes of Trinidado,  
Give us the best it kéeps our brains  
more warm than can frézado.  
It makes us sing,  
And cry hay jing,  
And laugh when Pipes lie broken  
For which to pay  
At going away,  
We scorn a Mustard Token.  
Never curse the saucy score  
Out swear the bar you'll pay no more.  
In these days  
He is no Gallant,  
That cannot puff and swagger  
Though he dare not kill a sheep,  
Yet out must fly his Dagger.  
If then you do love my Oast Claret,  
Fat Powder béef turnip and carrot,  
Come again and again  
And still welcome Gentlemen.    

Printed for F. Coles T. Vere, and w Gilbertson