Songs

Old Simon the cellarer keeps a rare store,
Of Malmsey and Malvoisie
And Cyprus, and who can say how many more!
For a chary old soul is he,
A chary old soul is he.

Of Sack and Canary he never doth fail,
And all the year round there is brewing of ale,
Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day.
But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew
How oft the black Jack to his lips doth go.
But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew
How oft the black Jack to his lips doth go.

Dame Margery sits in her own still-room,
And a matron sage is she,
From thence oft at Curfew is wafted a fume;
She says it is Rosemary,
She says it is Rosemary.
But there's a small curboard behind the back stair,
And the maids say they often see Margery there -
Now Margery says that she grows very old,
And must take a something to keep out the cold!

But ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth know,
Where many a flask of his best doth go.
But ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth know,
Where many a flask of his best doth go.
Old Simon reclines in his high-back'd chair,
And talks about taking a wife;
And Margery often is heard to declare
That she ought to be settled in life,
She ought to be settled in life.

But Margery has (so the maids say) a tongue,
And she's not very handsome, and not very young:
So somehow it ends with a shake of the head,
And Simon he brews him a tankard instead.
While ho! ho! ho! he will chuckle and crow,
What! Marry old Margery? no, no, no!
While ho! ho! ho! He will chuckle and crow,
What! Marry old Margery? no, no, no!