Friar's Song

Some love the matin-chimes, which tell
  The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far's the mid-day bell,
  Which speaks the hour of dinner;
For when I see a smoking fish,
  Or capon drown'd in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
  Full glad I sing my ave.
My pulpit is an alehouse bench,
  Whereon I sit so jolly;
A smiling rosy country wench
  My saint and patron holy.
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
  I press her ringlets wavy,
And in her willing ear I speak
  A most religious ave.
And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind,
  And holy saints forgiving;
For sure he leads a right good life
  Who thus admires good living.
Above, they say, our flesh is air,
  Our blood celestial ichor:
Oh, grant! mid all the changes there,
  They may not change our liquor!