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 Fowls,  
Full Mazer's, Beakers, Glasses, bowls,  
Greasy Flap-dragons, Flemish upsy freeze,  
With health s●a●'d in arms upon naked knees  
Of all his wines he makes you tasters,  
So you tipple like bumbasters  
Drink till you reel a welcome he doth give,  
O how the boon Claret makes you live?  
Not a Painter purer colour shows,  
than what's laid on by Claret,  
Pearl and Ruby doth set out the Nose,  
when thin small beer doth mar it,  
Rich wine is good, it heats the blood,  
it makes an old man lusty,  
The Young to brawl, and the Drawers call,  
before being too much musty.  
Whether you drink all or little,  
Pot it so yourselves to whittle,  
Then though twelve a Clock it be,  
Yet all the way go roaring,  
If the band of bills cry stand,  
Swear that you must a Who—  
Such Gambols, such tricks, such fegaries,  
We fetch though we touch no Canaries:  
Drink wine till the Welkin roars,  
And cry out a pox of your Scores.   

In wine we call for bawdy jigs,  
Catzoes', Rumbillows, whirligigs,  
Campo get in Huff Cap vain,  
The Devil in the places you w●t were reign,  
Brave wine it thus tickles our Heels,  
Mulled well in wine none sorrow feels,  
Our Moon-man & his powder-beef mad crew  
Thus caper through the liquor sweet turnip drew,  
Round about over tables and joint stools  
let's dance with naked Rapiers,  
Cut the Fidle-strings, and then like fools  
kick out the fum fum scrapees,  
There is no sound that cares can wound,  
as lids of wine-pots clinking,  
There's no such sport, when all amort,  
men cry let's fall to drinking;  
O 'tis happy Geer,  
Would each belly was filled here,  
Herrings pickled must be tickled,  
Down to draw the liquor,  
The salt Sammon and fat Gammon,  
Makes our wine drink quicker,  
Our Man in the Moon drinks Claret,  
With powder-beef turnip and carrot,  
If he doth so, why should nor you,  
Drink until the Sky looks blue.   

hay for a turn thus above Ground,  
O my Noddle too heavy doth weigh,  
Metheglin, Perry, Cider, nor strong ale,  
Are half so heavy, be they ne'er so stolen:  
Wine in our Guts can never rumble,  
Down now and then tho' it make us tumble;  
Yet scrambling up a Drunkard feels no pain,  
but cries Sirrah boy, their pottle again,  
We can drink no more unless we have  
full pipes of Trinnidado,  
Give us the best it keeps our brains  
more warm than does freezado.  
It makes us sing and cry hay ding,  
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 Hosts Claret,  
Fat powder-beef, turnip and carrot,  
Come again and again,  
And still welcome Gentlemen,    

Printed by and for A. M. and sold by the Booksellers of London.   

New Mad Tom of Bedlam. OR, 
The Man in the Moon drinks Claret,  
With Powder-beef, Turnip and Carrot.   
Tune is, Grays-Inn Mask.  
 
 

FOrth from my sad and darksome Cell,  
Or from the deep abiss of Hell,  
Mad Tom is come to view the world again,  
To see if he can ease his distempered brain:  
Fear and care both pierce the Soul,  
Hark! how the angry Furies howl!  
Pluto laughs, and Proserpina is glad,  
To see poor naked Tom of Bedlam mad:  
Through the world I wander night and day  
to find my strangling Senses,  
In an angry mood I found Old Time  
with's Pentarchy of Tenches,  
When me he spies away he flies,  
For time will stay for no man,  
In vain with cries I rend the Skies,  
For pity is not common,  
Cold and Comfortless I lie,  
Help, O help, or else I die.  
Hark I hear Apollo's Team,  
The Carman 'gins to whistle,  
 Diana bends her bow,  
The Boar gins to bristle,  
Come Vulcan with tools and with tackle,  
Shake off my troublesome shackle,  
Let Charles make ready his wain  
To bring me my Senses again.   

Last night I heard the Dog-Star bark,  
Mars met Venus in the dark,  
Leaping Vulcan haet an Iron bar,  
And furiously did run at the God of war,  
Mars with his weapon laid about,  
But Vulcan's temples had the gout,  
His broad Horns did so hang in his sight,  
He could not see to aim his blows aright:  
Mercury, the nimble Post of Heaven  
stayed still to see the Quarrel,  
Gorrel bestied Bacchus Giant like  
bestrid a strong beer barrel:  
To me he drank, I did him thank,  
but I could get no Cider,  
He drank whole butts till he cracked his guts,  
but mine were ne'er the wider.  
Poor naked Tom is very dry,  
A little drink for Charity:  
Hark I hear Actaeon's hounds  
The Huntsman hoops and hollows,  
Ringing Ryoster, Bowman jowler,  
At the Chase now follows,  
The man in the Moon drinks Claret;  
With Powder-beef, Turnip and Carrot,  
A Cup of old Malago Sack  
Will fire his bush at his back.