MASTER-COOK

A Hight day, a hight day, vengeance hight day boys Give me some drink, this fire's a plaguy fretter Body of me, I'm dry still; give me the Jack boy; This wooden Skiff holds nothing. Old and young, boy, let they all eat, I have it; I have ballast for their bellies, if they eat a gods name, Let them have ten tire of teeth a piece, I care not; Pish, a thousand; I'll make you pigs speak French at table, and a fat swan Come sailing out of England with a challenge; I'll make you a dish of calves-feet dance the Canaries, And a consort of crammed capons fiddle to them; A calves head speak and Oracle, and a dozen of Larks Rise from the dish, and sing all supper time; 'Tis nothing boys: I have framed a fortification Out of Rye past, which is impregnable, And against that, for two long hours together, Two dozen of marrowbones shall play continually: For fish, I'll make you a standing lake of white broth, And pikes come ploughing up the plums before them; Arion, Like a Dolphin, playing Lachrymae, And brave king Herring with his oil and onion Crowned with a Limon pill, his way prepared With his strong Guard of Pilchers. All these are nothing: I'll make you a stubble Goose Turn o'th' toe thrice, do a cross point presently, And fit down again, and cry come eat me: These are for mirth. Now sir, for matter of mourning, I'll bring you in the Lady Loyne of Veil, With the long love she boar the Prince of Orange. I have a trick for thee too, And a rare trick, and I have done it for thee. It's a sacrifice. A full Vine bending, Like and Arch, and under The blown God Bacchus, sitting on a Hogshead, His Altar Beer: before that, a plump Vintner Kneeling, and offering incense to his deity, Which shall be only this, read Sprats and Pilchers. Thou hast it right, and then comes thy Song, Butler. If yowl have the pasty speak, it's in my power, I have fire enough to work it; come, stand close, And now rehearse the Song, We may be perfect, The drinking Song, and say I were the Brother's. Well have you born your selves; a read Dear Pie, Boys, And that no lean one, I bequeathe your virtues; What friends hast thou to day? no citizens? By the mass true wenches: Sirrah, set by a chine of Beef, and a hight Pasty, And let the Joll of Sturgeon be corrected: And do you mark sir, stalk me to a Pheasant, And see if you can shoot her in the Seller. Bring them, they shall not starve here I'll send'em victuals Shall work you a good turn, thought be tend a yes hence, sir. Nay, I'll do't. I, then there were some savour in't, where now We live between two stools, every hour ready To tumble on our noses; and for ought we know yet, For all this Supper, ready to fa to the next day. And we would as feign hear you, pray go forward. By the mass, a Royal gentleman, indeed Boys, He`de make the chimneys smoke. Pray you be short sir. Dare not me Monsieur: For I that fear nor fire, nor water, sir, Dare do enough, a man would think. Will they kill Rats? they eat my pies abominably Or work upon a woman cold as Christmas: I have and old Jade sticks upon my fingers, May I taste them? Wise as you will, sir. Why 'tis done then? All? All: All: All. Fine wholesome titles. What a goodly swing I shall give the gallows? yet I think too, this may be done, and yet we may be rewarded, not with a rope, but with a royal master: and yet we may be hanged too. And yet we may be hanged too. If he do, friends, we shall find that will hold us; And yet me thinks, this prologue to our purpose, These crowns should promise more: 'tis easily done, As easy as a man would roast and egg, If that be all; for look you, gentlemen, Here stand my broths, my finger slips a little, Down drops a dose, I stir him with my ladle, And there's a dish for a Duke: lla Podrid . Here stands a baked meat, he won a little seasoning, A foolish mistake; my Spice-box, gentlemen, And put in some of this, the matter ended; Dredge you a dish of plovers, there's the Art on't. 'Tis very true, sir. Bl ssing it with your hand, thus quick and neatly first, 'tis passed And done once, 'tis as easy For him to thank us for it, and reward us. Oh, never fear that. The fire's my playfellow, and now I am resolved, boys. And now no more our worships, but our Lordship's. My friend, if you be unprovided of a hanging, You look Like a good fellow, I can afford you A reasonable pennyworth. Do you hear sir? You custard pate, we go to't for high treason, And honourable fault: thy foolish father Was hanged for stealing sheep. Do you see how that sneaking rogue looks now? You, chip, Pantler, you peaching rogue, that provided us these necklaces: you poor rogue, you costive rogue you. Pray for thy crusty soul? where's your reward now, Goodman Manchet, for your fine discovery? I do beseech you sir, where are your dollars? Draw with your fellows, and be hanged. Hang handsomely for shame, come leave your praying You peaking knave, and die Like a good courtier; Die honestly, and Like a man; no preaching, With I beseech you take example by me, I lived a lewd man, good people; pox ont: Die me as if thou hadst dined, say grace, and God be with you, Come boys, sing cheerfully, we shall never sing younger We have chosen a loud tune too, because it should Like well. Come, Fortune's a whore, I care not who tell her, Would offer to strangle a page of the Cellar, That should by his oath, to any men thinking, And place, have had a defence for his drinking; But thus she does still, when she pleases to palter, In stead of his wages, she gives him a halter. Three merry boys, and three merry boys, and three merry boys are we, As ever did sing in a hempen string, under the gallow-tree. But I that was so lusty, And ever kept my bottles, That neither they were musty, And seldom less than pottles, For me to be thus stopped now, With hemp in stead of cork sir, And from the gallows lopped now, Shows that there is a fork sir, In death, and this the token, Man may be two ways killed, Or Like the bottle, broken, Or Like the wine, be spilled. Three merry boys, &c O yet but look on the master Cook, the glory of the kitchen, In sowing whose fate at so lofty a rate, no Taylor ere had stitching For though he makes the man, the Cook yet makes the dishes; The which no Taylor can, wherein I have my wishes, That I who at so many a feast have pleased so many tasters, Should now my self come to be dressed, a dish for you my Master's Three merry boys, &c. There's a few copies for you; now farewell friends: And good Mr Sheriff, let me not be printed With a brass pot on my head. Good Mr Sheriff, your leave to, this hasty work Was never done well: give us so much time as but to sing Our own Ballads, for weel trust no man, Nor no tune but our own; it done in Ale too, And therefore cannot be refused in justice. Your penny pot Poets are such pelting thieves, They ever hang men twice; we have it here sir, And so much every merchant of our voyage, He'll make a sweet return else of his credit. These are the youths you look for, And, pray my honest friends, be not so hasty, There will be nothing done till we come, I assure you. We may be hanged, drawn, and quartered.