A New Godly Song

Of all the pleasures men can have,
Above, or yet below,
The fairest and the rarest,
I will unto you show.

It's call'd the Bischop's Kiss,
That dwells in Edenburgh Toun,
Which to the world doeth declare,
How he desserves the goun.

It wes by Balup Simonie
He rose to honours mount,
And, therefore, there is reason for't,
That he should kiss the fount.

Lyke lips, and lyke latuce,
May we'll together goe,
His father wes a leaper stout,
May not the sone do so.

He took her by the milk whyt hand,
The touch it made him clatter,
Quoth he, Madame, I'm covetous,
To see your virgine watter.

Quoth she, My Lord, you make me blush,
Wes ever this your won't?
Quoth he, it is my ordinar,
To kiss your water fount.

For I'me a little now bewitched,
I do not climb the mountain,
Bot gladly I can sit and sing,
And kiss your water fountain.

My Lord, quoth she, you have a wife,
That's better far than me;
Quoth he, Adulterie is sweet,
It's state-polygamie.

Quoth she, you are a minister,
My Lord, and fy for shame,
That you, too, with your stinking lips,
Such stinking things should name.

Quoth he, and itchinglie he laught,
Oh, how shee grossly erres,
To think Lord Bishops do no more,
Than silly ministers!

For I have lyen with twentie wyves,
And twenty fountains kis't,
And yet, unto this very hour,
I nere preferment mist.

Bot I encreased more and more,
Since first I did begin
To leave my wyfe and court a w---e,
In honour and in sinne.

Contented cuckolds I prefer,
To places high and low,
This is the ghostly way that kirks
And clerkships I bestow;

And if my cuckolds thryve, ere long,
Archbishop I will be,
This is the way I'll hoist my saills
Up for St Andrew's See.

Quoth she, thou cunnie kissing loun,
That thou art so profane,
If to the Duke it wes made known,
Thou wold not here remain.

And to my brother to declare,
The matter I'll not misse,
That thou may rue the day thou did
A freinged fountain kisse.

And on my knees I shall fall doun,
And cause him give the thanks,
Thou counsells cross and clergies curse,
With all thy back-stair pranks.

That spyte of such smoke vermine, now,
The world may clearlie see,
Some Ladies at the Court maintain
A spotless honestie.

The King will say, gar hang the cur,
The longer that he lives,
The shameless rascall's shameful deeds,
The more and more me greives.

When such a villain lives unhang'd,
It wrongs the common weel,
Who preachings and pleasures,
And every thing does steal.

I wonder what the prentices,
When they went to the wears,
They did not stoutly then pull down
His house about his eares.

Who, from his cradle, hes practis'd,
Such damning villanie;
Unworthie is in Church or State,
To have authoritie.

For still the more he sheweth us,
The greater he doth grow,
The next step of preferment,
It shall be in a tow.

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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin