The Country MAIDENS Lamentation For the Loss of her TAYLOR: Who after pretence of a great deal of Love, ran away with her Clothes, and left her destitute both of Clothes and Sweetheart Maidens beware, who have not known The Tricks and Humours of the Town: For you will find that there are many, Who of a Maid will make a penny. Tune of, Ladies of London. This may be printed, R. P.
|
THere came up a Lass from a Country Town,
|
intending to live in the City;
|
In Steeple-Crown Hat, and a Paragon Gown
|
who thought her self wondrous pretty:
|
Her petticoat Serge, her stockings were green,
|
her Smock was cut out of a sheet sir;
|
And under it something was not to be seen,
|
but that here I dare not repeat sir.
|
With joyful heart and a pretty full purse
|
she came to this City of London;
|
Little expecting to meet with curse,
|
by which she should quickly be undone:
|
She had not been here a fortnight in Town,
|
e're a Pricklouse began for to wooe her,
|
who quickly made bold for to rumple her gown
|
and take up her Petticoat too sir.
|
It was in the season of Cucumber time,
|
when Taylors were sharp as their Needles,
|
when ninety were scarce full as weighty as nine
|
their bodies were grown so feeble.
|
When their first progress was every day
|
to their Chappel of ease in the Fields sir,
|
There kneel down in clusters & heartily pray
|
their stomachs may go to the Deal sir.
|
But you shall hear how he served the wench,
|
who thought he would never be fickle;
|
He soon made her belly as plump as a Tench,
|
that her Gown it was grown too little:
|
He bid her one day she should keep in her bed,
|
and send him her Gown to be alter'd,
|
And he would enlarge it, and fit her he said;
|
but now you shall hear how he faulter'd.
|
But when he had got all her cloaths in his hand
|
he quitted his Country baggage,
|
And run from his lodging which was in the Strand
|
thus cleverly rub'd with his cabbage,
|
And left the poor wench in such a sad state,
|
who hardly believ'd he would fail her,
|
Till three or four days she had spent at this rate
|
then curst the sad Rogue of a Taylor.
|
Therefore all Maidens you'd best have a care,
|
when first you come up to the City,
|
For Taylors and other such sharpers there are,
|
will strive if they can to out-wit ye:
|
And after they tell ye y'are pretty and fair,
|
though with all protestations they wooe ye,
|
If once you but let them come in for a share,
|
you'l find they will quickly undo ye.
|
|
FINIS.
|
|
|
|