_The Cardinal's Hat_ is a very good inn, And so is _The Puritan's Head_; But I know a sign of a Wine, a Wine That is better when all is said. It is whiter than Venus, redder than Mars, It was old when the world begun; For all good inns are moons or stars But _The Mermaid_ is their Sun.
_Chorus:_ They are all alight like moons in the night, But _The Mermaid_ is their Sun.
Therefore, when priest or parson cries That inns like flowers increase, I say that mine inn is a church likewise, And I say to them "Be at peace!" An host may gather in dark St. Paul's To salve their souls from sin; But the Light may be where "two or three" Drink Wine in _The Mermaid Inn_.
_Chorus:_ The Light may be where "two or three" Drink Wine in _The Mermaid Inn_.
'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn --Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host-- Heard and took part in its most eerie tale. It was a bitter night, and master Ben, --His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still fired His deep and ageless eyes,--in the old oak-chair, Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe; A little sad, as often I found him now Remembering vanished faces. Yet the years Brought others round him. Wreaths of Heliochrise Gleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin, Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel. Chapman and Browne, Herrick,--a name like thyme Crushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maid Milking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,-- These three came late, and sat in a little room Aside, supping together, on one great pie, Whereof both crust and coffin were prepared By master Herrick's receipt, and all washed down With mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben, John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof, Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden. Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a sound Of iron that grated on the flags. A spade And pick came edging through the door.
"O, room! Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford, And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in. He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots, --On my clean rushes!--brushed it from his cloak Of Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees, Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail, Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall, Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms, And called for ale.