A Copy of VERSES
OF A
Baker and a Mealman:
Giving an Account of their subtle Intreagues with their Mi-
stresses, and how the Mealman got his Maid with Child.
To the Tune of, The Scotch Hay-makers.
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IN Blackman-street there dwelt Sir a Baker of renown,
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Skill'd in the feats of Venus, and doing Girls oth' Town,
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But in time it so fell out, as he went to take a Bout,
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Says his Mistress, Prithee do not do me, Faith I will cry out:
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Long had he sew'd for her Maiden-head in vain,
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But it was a hidden Treasure she ever wou'd maintain;
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Nor would she e'er consent to her Pillory Gallant,
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But always cry'd, Sir be deny'd, your Suit I will not grant.
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But once upon a time Sir, got in a merry mood,
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He caught his Mistress Nanny, and thus again he woo'd,
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Oh my dearest pretty, fair, now my Passion I declare,
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Pray don't deny, but let me try how I can use my Spear;
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Dear Nanny be not Coy, but let me now enjoy,
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For why should you deny me that pritty, pritty Toy:
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I'll be constant, Love, and true, and kiss none else but you,
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Then prithee Nanny let me do thee, prithee Nanny do.
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With this she soon consented, and granted his Request,
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And she let him tak a Touch Sir, altho it was in Jest;
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Nor no more could she deny for to let the Baker try,
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But she turn'd up her dainty Cup, and bid him do and die;
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He tuned his Quill, Sir, and soon began
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To play the finest Lesson that e'er was plaid by Man:
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Then did he toil and sweat, her Maiden-head to get,
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And he gave a Guinea to his Nanny for surrendring it.
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But near this fruitful Baker, a Mealman too did dwell,
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Both Brethren in their Calling both ripe enough for Hell;
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Come then listen to my Tale which I quickly mean to tell,
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This Mealman had a pretty Maid that in his house did dwell:
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E'er long so it happen'd, he taught her a Dance,
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Which some People do report to be Alamode de France;
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But be it what it will, he handl'd so his Quill,
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That in little space the Babe of Grace did make her Belly swell.
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This suddain Metamorphose the pritty Maid did fear,
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And she said unto her Master, You've poyson'd me I swear:
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Oh! Sir, see what you have done, for my Belly's like a Tun,
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This plaguy Bout has caus'd this Rout, oh! whether shall I run?
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If this be your Dancing, I'll Dance no more,
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If I do, I'll give you leave, Sir, to call me a Whore:
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But oh this plaguy Bout, my Guts will tumble out,
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Oh! Master, Master, this Disaster causes a fearful Rout.
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