THE
Lass of LYNNs New Joy
For finding a Father for her Child.
Being a Third SONG of Marry and Thank ye too:
To the same Tune. Licensed according to Order.
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COme listen, and hear me tell
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the end of a Tale so true,
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The Lass that made her Belly Swell,
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with Marry and thank ye too.
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With many hard Sobs and Throws,
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and Sorrow enough (I wot)
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She had wept Tears, the whole Town knows,
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would fill a whole Chamber-pot.
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For Pleasure with Pain she pays,
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her Belly and Shame to hide,
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So hard all day she Lac'd her Stayes,
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as Pinched both her Back and Side.
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Oh! were not my Belly full,
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a husband I'd have to Night;
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There's George the Tapster at the Bull,
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I'm sure I'm his whole Delight.
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This day on his Knees he Swore,
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he Lov'd me above his Life,
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Were not my Pipkin Crackt before,
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I vow I would be his Wife.
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Her Mother that heard her, spoke,
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O take him at's word, said she;
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A Husband, Child's, the only Cloak
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to cover a Great Belly.
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Her Mother she show'd the way,
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and straight without more ado,
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She took him to the Church next day,
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and Marry'd and thank'd him too.
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But Oh! when he came to Bed,
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the saddest News now to tell ye;
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On a soft place his hand he laid,
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and found she'd a Rising Belly:
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At which he began to Roar,
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your Fancy it has been Itching;
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Byth' Meat in your Pot, I find, you Whore,
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you've had a Cook in your Kitchin.
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O fie, my dear Love, said she,
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what puts you into this Dump?
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For what tho' Round my Belly be,
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it is only Fat and Plump.
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Good Flesh it is all, ye Chit,
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besides, the plain truth to tell,
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I've eat so much, the Sack-Posset
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has made my poor Belly Swell.
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Nay, then I've wrong'd thee, he crys,
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I beg thy sweet pardon for't;
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I'll get thee a Boy before we rise,
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and so he fell to the Sport.
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No, the Boy it was got before,
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the Midwife soon wisht him Joy;
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But, Oh! e're full five Months were o're,
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she brought him a lusty Boy.
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My Wife brought to Bed, says George,
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I hope she has but Miscarry'd;
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A Boy! says he, how can that be,
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when we are but five Months Marry'd.
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Five Months! has the Man last his Wits?
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crys Midwife, what does the Fool say?
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Five Months by Days, and five by Nights,
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sh'has gone her full time to a day.
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The Child's all your own, by my truth,
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the pritty Eyes do but see,
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Had it been spit out of your Mouth,
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more like you it could not be.
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Nay then, my kind Gossips all,
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says George, let us Merry make;
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I'll Tap a Barrel of stout Ale,
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and send for a Groaning-Cake.
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The Gossips they Laugh'd and Smil'd,
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and Mirth it went round all through;
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She'd found a Father for her Child,
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Hye, Marry and thank him too.
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