ROGER'S Delight:
OR,
The WEST-Country Christning, and Gossipping.
To an Excellent New Tune: Or, Cold and Raw. Licensed according to Order.
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WHen Sol had left his weary Teams,
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and turn'd his Steeds a grazing,
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Ten Fathom deep in Neptune's Streams,
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he his Thetis lay Embracing;
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The Stars tript in the Firmament,
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like School-Boys on a Play-day;
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The Country Lasses a Mumming went,
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like Milk-Maids on a May day.
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Then a-pace grew on the grey Morn,
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when the Herds-man flocks were Lowing,
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And amongst the Poultry in the Barn,
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the Plow-man's Cocks were Crowing;
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Whilst Roger he dreamt of Golden Joys,
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was walk'd by a Rebel-rout Sir,
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But Cicely she tells him he needs must rise,
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for his Juggy was crying out Sir.
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Not half so merry the Cup went round,
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as the Tapping of good Ale-Firkin,
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Then Roger his Hose and Shoes had found,
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and button'd his leathern Jerkin;
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Grey Mare was Saddl'd with wondrous speed,
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with Pillion and Buttock a-right Sir,
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And for an old Midwife away he rode,
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to bring the poor Kid to light Sir.
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Oh good Mother I pray get up,
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for the Fruits of my Labour it's now come,
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And there it lyes strugling in Juggy's Womb,
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but it cannot get out till you come.
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I'll help her, quoth the old Hag, ne'er doubt,
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thy Juggy shall be well again Boy,
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And Ise warrant that I'se get the Kid out
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as well as thou gott'st it in Boy.
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Grey Mare they mount, and away they ride,
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no Whip nor Spur was wanting;
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As soon as the old Hag entred the Room,
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then Hoop cry'd out the Bantling:
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A Female Chit, so small it was born,
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you might put it into a Flaggin,
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And it must be Christn'd that very Morn,
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for fear it should dye a Pagan.
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Then Robin and Doll with constant Kate
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were Gossips for this Great Christning,
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And the good Wives did merrily prate,
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whilst Juggy in Bed lay listning:
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They talk'd of this, and they talk'd of that,
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of Chatting they were not sparing;
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Some said it was so small a Brat,
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that hardly it was worth the rearing.
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Then Roger he strutted about the Hall,
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as great as the Prince of Conde;
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What if her Parts they are but small,
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they will be bigger one-day:
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What if her Legs and Thighs lye close,
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as little as any Spider,
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You need not fear, e'er seventeen years,
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she'll lig them a little wider;
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For then she'll be a Woman grown,
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I'll lay Five pounds in Money,
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And have a little One of her own,
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as well as Jug my Honey:
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These will be joyfull days to see,
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I'll study for to advance her,
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That Juggy may a Granny be,
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then I shall be a Grand-sir.
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The Nappy Ale went fairly round,
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as brown as any Berry,
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With which the good Wives being Crown'd.
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they all was brisk and merry;
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Whilst Roger he turn'd Cups over his Thumb
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to every honest Neighbour,
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Saying, A Twelve-month hence pray come,
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once more to my Juggy's Labour.
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