LITMIR.BIZ

      I cannot eate but lytle meate,

       My stomacke is not good,

       But sure I thinke that I can drinke

       With him that weares a hood.

       Though I go bare, take ye no care,

       I nothing am a colde,

       I stuff my skyn so full within,

       Of joly good ale and olde.

      Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare,

       Both foote and hand go colde,

       But, belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe,

       Whether it be new or olde.

      I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste

       And a crab laid in the fyre;

       A little breade shall do me steade,

       Much breade I not desyre.

       No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe,

       Can hurte mee, if I wolde,

       I am so wrapt and throwly lapt

       Of joly good ale and olde.

      Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

      And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe,

       Loveth well good ale to seeke,

       Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see,

       The teares run downe her cheeke.

       Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle,

       Even as a mault-worme sholde,

       And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte

       Of this jolly good ale and olde.

      Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

      Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke,

       Even as goode fellowes sholde doe,

       They shall not mysse to have the blisse,

       Good ale doth bring men to;

       And all poore soules that have scowred bowles,

       Or have them lustily trolde,

       God save the lyves of them and their wives,

       Whether they be yonge or olde.

       Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

      It would do one’s heart good to hear, on a club night, the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner’s window or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop.

      There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in Little Britain: these are St. Bartholomew’s Fair and the Lord Mayor’s Day. During the time of the Fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the taproom morning, noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth and tankard in hand, fondling and prosing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof against this saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet-Show, the Flying Horses, Signior Polito, the Fire-Eater, the celebrated Mr. Paap, and the Irish Giant. The children too lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles.

      But the Lord Mayor’s Day is the great anniversary. The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth, his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splendor, and his procession, with all the sheriffs and aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea that the king himself dare not enter the city without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar and asking permission of the Lord Mayor; for if he did, heaven and earth! there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offends against the dignity of the city; and then there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state coach and holds the city sword, as long as a pikestaff. Odd’s blood! if he once draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe.

      Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train-bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world!

      Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it; for though there might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds and soon passed away. The neighbors met with goodwill, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their backs.