“Thou Base-Born Clotpole”

[Intro] Ho! Landlord! Another! My cup hath run dry! And look what the cat hath dragged in by and by. Good sirs, lend thine ears, for a wonder is here: A man with no wit, yet a head full of air! Come hither, thou knave—God’s mercy! The Devil hath lost a footrace! [Verse 1] Thou clotpole, thou dullard, thou witless old sot, Thy skull holds less sense than a cracked cooking pot. Thou churl, thou base varlet, a wart on the race, Thy breath makes a sworn enemy out of a friend. Thou struttest like Caesar, yet flee’st from a mouse, Thy mother wept at thy birth—Death sent back no worth. Thy father denied thee his name—a wise man forsooth! [Chorus] Ho, thou knave! Ho, thou fool! Less than the muck on a dung-covered mule! Hey, thou churl! Hey, thou ass! Thy wits have all fled, and thy manners are crass! Fill the cup, let the rafters ring! Here’s to the fool who would fain be a king! Drink it down—there’s no greater fool in the shire than thee! [Verse 2] Dost thou think ere thou speak, or doth sense flee thy beak? Thou coxcomb, thou popinjay, head fit for straw. Thy wit is so thin that the wind bloweth through, Thou pratest of honour—yet a cutpurse hath more shame. Thou wouldst sell thy own brother for half a warm pie, All the pride of a lord, but the grace of a hog. [Spoken] I would call thee a fool… but that insults fools. A fool may learn. Thou art proof God hath humour— And the Devil sometimes wins a wager. [Verse 3] Thou fusty hedge-pig, thou lily-livered wretch, Thy courage lies buried beneath fat pride. Thy promises crumble, thy oaths turn to smoke, If brains were good ale, thou wouldst die of thirst. If fools wore a crown, thou wouldst sit on the throne And rule over kingdoms of dung all thine own! [Chorus] Ho, thou knave! Ho, thou fool! Less than the muck on a dung-covered mule! Hey, thou churl! Hey, thou ass! May thy wits find their way through thy thick skull at last! Fill the cups! Let the whole shire sing! Behold the great fool who would fain be a king! The Devil himself would return thee for free! [Bridge] I’ll grant thee this: thou serv’st as a warning. Mothers point at thy likeness to frighten their young. Yet I bear pity—I too have been a fool. But ale leaves me merry… thou wert a fool ere the drink. [Outro] Farewell, good sir, may thy fortunes improve. May God grant thee sense—for He hath none to spare from me.