Tune, The Dusty Miller

Goody Burton’s ale Gets into my noddle, ’Tis so stout and pale, It makes me widdle waddle; When I came to ask, Who the brewing taught her, I found out each cask Was brew’d by—Goody’s daughter.

Now I long’d to see Goody’s buxom brewer, Hoping I should be The only one to woe her; When I spoke her soft, I meant not to fool her, So I went aloft, And warm’d her in the cooler.

Oh! what flesh and blood! Malt, and hop, and water, Are not near so good As Goody Burton’s daughter; I made her heart right glad, For till I came across it, She had never had A spigot in her fauset.

Nightly at my door Comes a gentle rapping, ’Tis Miss Burton sure, Who wants her barrel tapping; When her barrel’s tapp’d, She with art and cunning, Turns the patent cock, And sets the liquor running.

Other folks I hear, Pant for Betsy Burton, But I’ve nought to fear, So I let her flirt on; If her cask runs low, Slowly comes the liquor, Betsy tilts it so, And makes it come the quicker.

Mellow up and ripe, I and Parson Cottle, Sit behind a pipe, And quaff the ale in bottle; Goody Burton bye, Sings to please the parson, While Miss B. and I Carry Nature’s—farce on.

By the yeast I swear, Yielding fermentation, To the home-brew’d beer, The neighbour’s admiration, This the maid will tell, The Bard’s no bragging talker, Like ale, to keep her well, Well, by Jove,—I cork her.