Then what do you say to these flagons fine? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine; For when a lord is about to dine, And sends them to be filled with wine, The man with the flagon doth run away, Because it is silver most gallant and gay So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottèl.
A leather bottèl we know is good, Far better than glasses or cans of wood; For when a man's at work in the field Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield; But a good leather bottèl standing by Will raise his spirits whenever he's dry. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottèl.
At noon the haymakers sit them down, To drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown; In summer, too, when the weather is warm, A good bottle full will do them no harm. Then the lads and the lasses begin to tottle, But what would they do without this bottle? So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottèl.
There's never a lord, an earl, or knight, But in this bottle doth take delight; For when he's hunting of the deer He oft doth wish for a bottle of beer. Likewise the man that works in the wood, A bottle of beer will oft do him good. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottèl.
And when the bottle at last grows old, And will good liquor no longer hold, Out of the side you may take a clout, To mend your shoes when they're worn out; Or take and hang it up on a pin, 'Twill serve to put hinges and old things in. So I wish in heav'n his soul may dwell That first found out the leather bottèl.
Woodman, spare that tree, Touch not a single bough-- In youth it shelter'd me, And I'll protect it now. Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot. There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, Say, wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke, Cut not its earth-bound ties-- Oh, spare that aged oak, Now, towering to the skies. Oft, when a careless child, Beneath its shade I heard The wood-notes sweet and wild, Of many a forest bird. By mother kiss'd me here, My father press'd my hand, I ask thee, with a tear, Oh, let that old oak stand.