Classic Poem

Who that lives but owes Nan Thrale
A curse for choakes & praise for ale
& done his pence before her tale
At the old shock of barley O
Brave she glegs her saucey eye
Till your purse of pence is dry
Then she pops the pitur bye
& no more will parley O

Shes got tricks your pence to cull
Shell frorth pints before theyre full
& her box with snuff is ever full
To keep ye in a parley O
When thats gone—why up shell fair
Sweeping dirt from hearth & chair
Cursing shoes that brought it there
«From mucky fields o' barley O»

Shell gi me a pleasing tale
Shell gi a stinger to yer ale
She has ways that never fail
While chink lasts to parley O
Yet That she gis it is no joke
Shes a nick with in her choke
That sets two pints at [but] a stroke
& so she brews her barley O

Shell gi meat to you & I
Seasond up to make us dry
So she gains her pence therebye
& outwits us fairly O
When she hears your money chink
Shell begin to smile & blink
& take your pitcher up to drink
To make you stop & parley O

When you pay with cash in hand
Corner stools at your command
Tho her husbands forced to stand
In she thrusts you farly O
But I fear when all is oer
Yell be shown with croney Moor
Neck or nought were lyes the door
& so she brews her barley O