The Plowman's Praise:
Or, A New SONG in Answer to the Bonny MILKMAID;
with a brief Account of Rural Pleasures exceeding Courtly Wanton
Pastimes. To the Tune of, The Bonny Milkmaid, etc.
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A Country life is sweet,
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In moderate cold and heat,
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to walk in the air,
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how pleasant and fair,
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Is every field of wheat;
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the Goddess of flowers,
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adorning the bowers,
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And every meadow now;
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so that I say,
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no Courtier may
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compare with They,
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who cloath'd in gray,
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Do follow the painful Plow.
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They rise with the morning lark,
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And labour till almost dark,
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then folding their sheep,
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they hasten to sleep,
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While every pleasant park
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next morning is ringing,
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with birds that are singing,
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On each green tender bough;
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with what content,
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and merriment,
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their days are spent,
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whose minds are bent,
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To follow the painful Plow.
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Brisk Country Lads repair
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To every wake and fair,
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with Sary and Sue,
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Nan, Bridget, and Prue,
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No manner of charge they spare,
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in seasons of leasure,
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thus taking their pleasure,
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Such liberty they allow:
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the rural Train,
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through snow or rain,
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tript o'er the plain,
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with speed again,
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To follow the painful Plow.
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But hectoring Sparks at Court,
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According to Fame's report,
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are commonly soil'd,
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nay, ruin'd and spoild
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By follewing Venus sport:
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but this way of sinning,
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it is the beginning
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Of doting on e'ry Sow,
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who will not fail,
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for mugs of ale,
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to spread her tail;
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'gainst these we rail,
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Who follow the painful Plow.
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A hundred a year and more
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Some spend to maintain a Whore,
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who never would give,
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so long as they li[v]e,
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Not two-pe[n]ce to hel[p] the Poor;
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their Wive[s] a[r]e neglected,
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and Harlots respected,
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This grieves the Nation now;
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but 'tis not so,
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with we that go,
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where pleasures flow,
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to reap and mow,
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And follow the painful Plow.
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The Gallant that keeps his Crack,
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And tipples in bowls of sack,
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were it to be try'd,
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his feathers of pride,
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Which decks and adorns his back,
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are Taylors, and Mercers,
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and other Men-dressers,
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For which they do dun them now:
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but Ralph and Will
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no Compters fill,
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for Taylor's bill,
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or garments st[i]ll,
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But follow the painful Plow.
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The Gallant he's Sir'd and Sir'd,
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By Jenny his pretty Bird,
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he calls her his Honey,
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supplies her with Money,
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Till Frenchefi'd claps the word,
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and then he runs swearing,
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nay, raving and taring,
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And crys, I am ruin'd now;
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and what is worse,
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the Spark does curse
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his empty purse:
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but 'tis not th[u]s
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With any that drives the Plow.
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Licens'd and Enter'd according to [Law]
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