Stingo, or, Oil of Barley, or, A Cup of Old Stingo
A pleasant song for the maltworm in your life.
The tune may be found in Playford's, The English Dancing Master of 1651.
Stingo, or, Oil of Barley, or, A Cup of Old Stingo
To it's tune
There's a lusty liquor which good fellows
use to take -- a,
It is distill'd with nard most rich, and
water of the lake -- a;
Of hop a little quantity, and barm to it
they bring too;
Being barrell'd up, they call't a cup of
dainty good old stingo.
'Twill make a man indentures make, 'twill
make a fool seem wise,
'Twill make a Puritan sociate, and leave
to be precise;
'Twill make him dance about a cross, and
eke to run the ring too,
Or anything he once thought gross, such virtue
hath old stingo.
'Twill make a constable over see sometimes
to serve a warrant;
'Twill make a bailiff lose his fee, though
he be a knave-arrant;
'Twill make a lawyer, though that he to ruin
oft men brings, too,
Sometimes forget to take his fee if his head
be lin'd with stingo.
'Twill make a parson not to flinch, though
he seen wondrous holy,
And for to kiss a pretty wench, and think
it is no folly;
'Twill make him learn for to decline the
verb that's called mingo,
'Twill make his nose like copper shine, if
his head be lin'd with stingo.
'Twill make a weaver break his yarn, that
works with right and left foot,
But he hath a trick to save himself, he'll
say there wanteth woof to't;
'Twill make a tailor break his thread, and
eke his thimble ring too,
'Twill make him not to care for bread, if
his head be lin'd with stingo.
'Twill make a baker quite forget that ever
corn was cheap,
'Twill make a butcher have a fit sometimes
to dance and leap;
'Twill make the miller keep his room, a health
for to begin, too,
'Twill make him shew his golden thumb, if
his head be lin'd with stingo.
'Twill make an hostess free of heart, and
leave her measures pinching,
'Twill make an host with liquor part, and
bid him hang all flinching;
It's so belov'd, I dare protest, men cannot
live without it,
And when they find there is the best the
most will flock about it.
And finally, the beggar poor, that walks
till he be weary,
Craving along from door to door, with pre-commiserere;
If he do change to catch a touch, although
his clothes be thin, too,
Though he be lame, he'll prove his crutch
if his head be lin'd with stingo.
Now to conclude, here is a health unto the
lad that spendeth,
Let every man drink off his can, and so my
ditty endeth;
I willing am my friend to pledge, for he
will meet me one day;
Let's drink the barrel to the dregs, for
the malt-man comes a-Monday.
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