Praise-God Barebones

I and my cousin Wildair met And tossed a pot together;— Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed, For it was nipping weather. ’Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench Set all the inn folk laughing! They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers At kissing and at quaffing. “Oddsfish!” says Dick, “the sack is rare, And rarely burnt, fair Molly; ’T would cure the sourest Crop-ear yet Of Pious Melancholy.” “Egad!” says I, “here cometh one Hath been at ’s prayers but lately.” —Sooth, Master Praise-God Barebones stepped Along the street sedately. Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow, And touch of his Toledo, Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue And bade him say his Credo; Next crush a cup to the King’s health, And eke to pretty Molly; “’T will cure your Saintliness,” says Dick, “Of Pious Melancholy.” Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned; My heart stood still a minute: Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang, Or else the devil’s in it! For me, I care not for old Noll, Nor all the Rump together. Yet, faith! ’t is best to be alive In pleasant Xmas weather. His worship, Barebones, grimly smiled; “I love not blows nor brawling; Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge!” And, zooks! he sent Dick sprawling! When Moll and I helped Wildair up, No longer trim and jolly,— “Feel’st not, Sir Dick,” says saucy Moll, “A Pious Melancholy?”