The merry hoastess: or, A pretty new ditty, compos'd by an hoastess that lives in the city: to wrong such an hoastess it were a great pitty, by reason she caused this pretty new ditty. To the tune of, Buff coat has no fellow. Robins, Thomas, fl. 1672-1685. 1660 Approx. 6 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2009-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). B05019 Wing R1656 Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.7[536] 99884571 ocm99884571 183203

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. B05019) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 183203) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A5:1[287]) The merry hoastess: or, A pretty new ditty, compos'd by an hoastess that lives in the city: to wrong such an hoastess it were a great pitty, by reason she caused this pretty new ditty. To the tune of, Buff coat has no fellow. Robins, Thomas, fl. 1672-1685. 1 sheet ([2] p.) : ill. Printed for John Andrews, at the White Lion near Pye-Corner., London, : [1660?] Signed: T.R. [i.e. Thomas Robins]. Publication date suggested by Wing. Verse: "Come all that loves good company ..." In two parts, separated for mounting; woodcuts at head of each part. Reproduction of original in the British Library.

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 eng Ballads, English -- 17th century. 2008-10 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-12 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2009-01 Sampled and proofread 2009-01 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
The merry Hoaſteſs: OR, A pretty new Ditty, compos'd by an Hoaſteſs that lives in the City: To wrong ſuch and Hoaſteſs it were a great pitty, By reaſon ſhe cauſed this pretty new Ditty. To the Tune of, Buff Coat has no Fellow.

COme all that loves good company, and hearken to my Ditty; 'Tis of a lovely Hoaſteſs fine, that lives in London City: Which ſells good Ale, nappe and ſtale, and alwayes thus ſings ſhe, My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. Her Ale is lively ſtrong and ſtout, if you pleaſe but to taſte; It is well brew'd you néed not fear, but I pray you make no waſte: It is lovely brown, the beſt in Town, and alwayes thus ſings ſhe, My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. The gayeſt Lady with her Fan, doth love ſuch nappy Ale; Both City Maids, and Countrey Girles that carries the milking Pail: Will take a touch, and not think much, to ſing ſo merrily, My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. Both Lord and Eſquire hath a deſire unto it night and day; For a quart or two, be it old or new, and for it they will pay: With Pipe in hand they may her command to ſing moſt merrily, My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. You'r welcome all brave Gentlemen, if you pleaſe to come in; To take a cup I do intend, and a health for to begin: To all the merry joval Blades, that will ſing for company, My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. Here's a Health to all brave Engliſh men that loves this cup of Ale; Let every man fill up his Can, and ſée that none do fail, 'Tis very good to nouriſh the blood, and make you ſing with me, My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee.
The ſecond Part, to the ſame Tune.

THe bonny Scot will lay a plot, to get a handſom tutch Of this my Ale ſo good and ſtale; ſo will the cunning Dutch: They will take a part with all their heart, to ſing this tune with me, My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. It will make the Iriſh cry a hone, If they but take their fill; And put them all quite out of tune, let them uſe their chiefeſt skill: So ſtrong and ſtout it will hold out in any company: For my Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. The Welche-man on Saint Davids Day will cry, Cots Plutter a nail, Hur will hur ferry quite away, from off that nappy Ale: It makes hur foes with hur red Noſe, hur ſeldom can agrée. But my Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. The Spaniard ſtout will have about, 'cauſe he hath ſtore of gold; Till at the laſt he is laid faſt, my Ale doth him ſo hold: His Ponyard ſtrong is laid along, yet he is good company. For my Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. There's never a Tradeſman in England, that can my Ale deny; The Weaver, Taylor, and Glover, delights it for to buy: Small money they do take away, if that they drink with me. For my Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. There is Smug the honeſt Blackſmith, he ſeldom can paſs by; Becauſe a ſpark lies in his throat, which makes him very dry: But my old Ale tells him his tale, ſo finely we agrée. For my Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. The Brewer, Baker, and Butcher, as well as all the reſt, Both night and day will watch where they may finde Ale of the beſt: And the Gentle Craft will come full oft to drink a cup with me. For my Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee. So to conclude, good Fellows all, I bid you all adieu; If that you love a cup of Ale, take rather old then new: For if you come where I do dwell, and chance to drink with me: My Ale was tunn'd when I was young, and a little above my knee.
T. R. FINIS.

London, Printed for John Andrews, at the White Lion near Pye-Corner.