The Begger-Boy of the North:
Whose linage and calling to th world is proclaimd,
Which is to be sung to a Tune so namd.
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FRom ancient pedigree by due descent,
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I well can derive my generation,
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Throughout all Christendome and also Kent:
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my calling is known both in Terme and Vacation,
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My Parents old taught me to be bold,
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Ile never be daunted what ever is spoken,
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Where ere I come my custome I hold,
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and cry, Good your worship bestow one token.
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In ragged rayments I wander about,
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both hot and cold weather Im armd to endure,
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Though but a Boy I am sturdy and stout,
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a living by begging I easily procure:
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My skin is made like armour of proofe,
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by Sun nor by frost twill never be broken,
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No threatning s[quir]es shall keep me aloofe,
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but still I will cry, Good your worship one token.
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My Father, my Mother, my Gransire and Grannum,
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my Uncles, my Aunts, and all my kindred,
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Did maund for Loure, casum and pannum,
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then wherefore should I from the Trade be hindred
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Cat will to kind, the Proverbe doth say,
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tis pitty old customes should be broken,
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Still as I wander along on the way,
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Ile cry, good your worship bestow one token.
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Although in the Quier-ken I have been off,
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and by the Rumcoe and the Harmanbecke frighted,
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Yet my old Trade I will set aloft,
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wherein all my linage have chiefly delighted,
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I have eat shame, and drunke after the same,
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I little regard what to me is spoken,
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Loud in the streets my mind I proclaime,
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and cry, good your worship bestow one token.
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To whet your charity, I have a tricke,
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a tricke said I, nay I have a hundred,
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With a Cap on my head, I can faine to be sicke,
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to see my strange gestures the people have wondred
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I can counterfeit a lame arme or a legge,
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and sometimes Ile seeme like one that is broken,
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This must he doe that exactly will begge,
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and cry, good your worship bestow one token.
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I can hold my fingers as though they were lame,
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lest people should say I were able to labour,
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And under a hedge along I can frame,
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as though it were writ by the Justices favour,
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From Parish to Parish along as I rome,
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my wants in blacke and white are spoken,
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Goe where I will I am alwayes at home;
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and still I doe cry, good your worship one token.
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The second part. To the same Tune.
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THe Crow her own bird doth deem the most faire,
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and so doe I of my profession;
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If I were adopted a rich mans Heire,
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this life of my heart hath tane such possession,
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That I should leave my livings and lands,
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and flee like a Citizen when he is broken,
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I cannot abide to worke with my hands,
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but still I must cry, good your worship one token.
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The richest Miser that liveth this day,
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hath not so much ground as I at disposing,
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My fields lye open as the high way.
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I wrong not the Country by greedy inclosing,
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I spend what I get, and get what I spend,
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all this for certaine which I have spoken,
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I am no other than what I pretend,
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for still doe I cry, good your worship one token.
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I am not in debt, theres good reason therefore,
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for no man will credit me with halfe a shilling,
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And yet if I chance to runne on the skore,
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to pay for my booze of all things I am willing,
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When I with my Mates at the bouzing ken meet,
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our braines with strong liquor soundly are soken,
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And when I want lowre then I step into th street,
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and cry, good your worship bestow one token.
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Ith heat of the Summer I lend a fine life,
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to walke the green medowes for my recreation,
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And when I am old enough to have a wife,
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Ile joyne with my doxie on the wandring fashion,
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Under a hedge I can lye and snort,
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by no worldly cares my sleepe is broken,
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And now and then I repaire to the Court,
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where I doe beg greater gifts than a token.
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All the cold winter I keepe rendevouse;
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in an old spacious barne by beggers frequented,
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Or else in the bouzing ken I doe carouse,
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and to lib in strummell I am well contented,
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I am not proud nor high in conceit,
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though some beggers are so as it is spoken;
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I care more for drinke than for cloathing or meat,
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which makes me cry, good your worship one token.
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In the North Countrey I first had my birth:
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from whence I came naked unto London City,
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Where a good fellow composd all of mirth,
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upon the poore Boy did take some pitty,
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And now he hath cloathd me in blacke and white,
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and mended my rags which before were broken:
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If this my Ditty will yeeld you delight,
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I shall thanke you more than I would for a token.
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