An Excellent New Play-House Song, Call'd,
The Bonny Milk-Maid.
To an Excellent New Tune much in Request.
|
YE Nimphs and Sylvian Gods,
|
That loves Green Fields and Woods,
|
When Spring newly blown,
|
Her self does adorn
|
With Flowers and blooming Buds,
|
Come sing in the praise
|
(Whilst Flocks do graze
|
In yonder pleasant Vale)
|
Of those choose
|
Their sleep so lose,
|
And in cold Dews,
|
With clouted shoes,
|
Do carry the Milking Pail.
|
The Goddess of the morn
|
With blushes they adorn,
|
And take the fresh Air,
|
Whilst Linnets prepare
|
A Consort on each green Thorn:
|
The Black-bird and Thrush,
|
On every bush,
|
And the charming Nightengale,
|
In merry vain
|
Their throats do strain,
|
Go entertain
|
The jolly Train
|
That carry the Milking Pail.
|
When cold bleak Winds do roar,
|
And Flowers can spring no more,
|
The Fields that were seen
|
So Pleasant and Green,
|
By Winter all Candid o're,
|
Oh how the Town Lass
|
Looks with her white face,
|
And her lips of deadly pale,
|
But it is no so
|
With those that go
|
Thro' Frost and Snow,
|
With cheeks that glow,
|
To carry the Milking Pail.
|
The Miss of courtly mold,
|
Adorn'd with Pearl and Gold,
|
With Washes nd a Paint
|
Her skin does so taint,
|
She's weather'd before she'd old,
|
Whilst she in commode
|
Puts on a Cart-load,
|
And with cusheons plumps her tail,
|
What joys are found
|
In Russet Gown,
|
Young, plump, and round,
|
And sweet, and sound,
|
That carry the Milking Pail.
|
The Girls of Venus Game,
|
That ventures health and fame,
|
In practising feats
|
With colds and with heats,
|
Make Lovers go blind and lame,
|
If men were so Wise
|
To value the prize
|
Of the Wares most fit for Sale,
|
What store of Beaus,
|
Would daubt their cloaths,
|
To save a Nose,
|
By following thoss
|
That carry the Milking Pail.
|
The Country Lad is free
|
From fears and Jealousie,
|
When upon the Green
|
He is often seen
|
With his lass upon his Knee,
|
With Kisses most sweet
|
He does her so treat,
|
And swears she'll ne're grow stale,
|
Whilst the London Lass,
|
In e'ery place,
|
With her brazen face,
|
Despises the Grace
|
Of those with the Milking Pail.
|
|
|
|
|
|