Ballad of Jack Kettle

Longshanks sat in the corner
his back against the wall,
he'd come from beyond the border
where evil had laid its pall.
You could feel the darkness on him
Like ice it burned you cold;
but the devil had never won him,
in his eye that truth was told.

A mug of ale and a tall tale
we'll have if the teller's awake and able;
but if he's gone we'll laugh till dawn
and leave some coin on the oaken table.

Betimes beer tricks a fellow
and makes his reason wink;
the man's far better off yellow
whose heart-fire comes from drink;
so up says young Jack Kettle,
armed with his bunched-up fists,
bristled with ale-born mettle,
and all of his senses dismissed:

"Stranger, I see you're bigger than me
but I reckon not half those tales are true,
that say you've spat in the devil's hat
and that he had nary a lick for you."

Remember the night Jack Kettle was pissed
and took a swing at a man and missed;
remember the tale and tell your young
what havoc comes of a wagging tongue.

Longshanks donned his kid gloves
when it came time to settle
a score that rose in a beer mug
and in the hot head of Jack Kettle;
one mop in the hand of a barmaid
sopped up the blood that was spilled
from that sawed-off wanna-be David
who was lucky he wasn't killed.