The Industrious Smith

by

Humfrey Crowch

(Seventeenth century)

There was a poor Smith liv'd in a poor town,

That had a loving wife, bonny and brown,

And though he were very discreet and wise,

Yet would he do nothing without her advise.

His stock it grew low, full well he did know;

He told his wife what he intended to do;

Quoth he, " Sweet wife, if 1 can prevail,

I will shoo horses, and thou shalt sell Ale.

"I see by my 1abour but little I thrive,

And that against the stream I do strive;

By selling of Ale some mony is got,

If every man honestly pay for his pot:

By this we may keep the wolf from the door,

And live in good fashion, though now we live poor;

If we hive good custome, we shal have quick sale;

So may we live bravely by selling of Ale."

Kind husband," quoth she, " let be as you Said,

It is the best motion that ever you made;

A Stan of good Ale let me have in,

A dozen of good white bread in my Bin:

Tobacco, likewise, we must not forget,

Men will call for it when malt's above wheat:

When once it is known, then ore hill and dale

Men will come flocking to taste of our Ale."

They sent for a wench, her name it was Besse,

And her they hired to welcome their ghesse:

They took in good Ale, and many things mo,-

The Smith h.Id got him two strings to his bow:

Good fellowes come in, and began for to rore,-

The Smith he was never so troubled before;

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

The Smith went to his work every day,

But still one or other would call him away;

For now he had got him the name of an Host,

It cost him many a pot and a toste;

Besides, much precious time he now lost,

And thus the poor Smith was every day crost;

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

Men run on the score, and little they paid,

Which made the poor Smith be greatly dismaid;

And bonny Besse, though she were not slack

To welcom her guesse, yet things went to wrack;

For she would exchange a pot for a kisse,

Which any fellow should seldom times misse;

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

The Smith went abroad: at length hee cam home,

And found his maid and man in a room

Both drinking together, foot to foot;

To speak unto them he though 'twas no boot,

For they were both drunk, and could not reply

To make and excuse as big as a lye.

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

He came home again, and there did he see

His Wife kingly sitting on a man's knee;

And though he said little, het he thought the more,

And who could blame the poore Wittal therfore?

He hugd her and kist her, though Vulcan stood by,

Which made him to grumble, and look all awry;

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

The Second Part

A Sort of Saylers were drinking one night,

And, when they were drunk, began for to fight;

The Smith came to part them, as some do report,

And for his good will was beat in such sort,

That he could not lift his arms to his head,

Nor yet very hardly creep up to bed.

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

The Smith by chance by chance a good fellow had met,

That for strong Ale was much in his debt;

He askt him for mony; quoth he "by your leave,

I owe you no mony, nor none you shall have;

I owe to your wife, and her I will pay."

Alas! who could blame him if now he do rayl;

These things should not be, though they sold Ale.

Old debts must be paid - O why should they not?

The fellow went home to pay the old shot,

The Smith followed after, and they fell at strife,

For he found this fellow in bed with his Wife.

He fretted and fumed, he curst and he swore;

Quoth she, "he is come to pay the old score."

And still she cryde "Good sweet hart, do not rayl,

For these things must be, if we sell Ale."

A stock of good fellows, all Smiths by their trade,

Within a while after, a holiday made;

Unto the Smith's house they came then with speed,

And there they were wondrous merry indeed:

With my pot, and thy pot, to rayse the score hier,

Mine Oast was so drunk, he fell in the fire:

"But," quoth the good Wife, "Sweet hart, do no rayl,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

Mine Oast being drunk, and loose in his joynts,

He took an occasion to untrusse his points;

The vault it was nere, but borded but slight,

The Smith he was heavy, and could not tred light;

The bords broke asunder, and down he fell in,

It was a worse matter then breaking his shin:

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

Happy is he who, when he doth stumble,

Knowes the ground well before he do tumble;

But so did not he, for he had forgotten

The bords which he trod on were so [very] rotten.

He moved the house to mirth and to laughter,-

His clothes they stunk at least a month after:

" But," quoth the good wife, "Sweet hart, do not ray1,

These things must be, if we sell Ale."

But men ran so much with him on the score,

That Vulcan at last grew wondrous[ly] poor;

He owed the Brewer and Baker so much,

They thretned to arrest him, his case it was such.

He went to his Anvill, to my pot and thine,

He turn'd out his Maid, he puld downe his Signe;

"But O" (quoth the good Wife), "why should we fail?

These things should not be, if we sell Ale."

The Smith and his boy went to work for some chink,

To pay for the liquor which others did drink.

Of all trades in london, few break, as I heare,

That sell Tobacco, strong Ale, and good Beer.

They might have done better, but they were loth

To fill up their measure with nothing but froth.

Let no Ale-house keeper at my Song rayl,

These things must be if they sell Ale.