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EBBA 30568

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
THE
Coy COOK-MAID,
Who was Courted importunately by Irish, Welch, Spanish, French and Dutch, but at last was
conquered by a poor English Taylor.
To the Tune of, There was a brisk Lass, etc. This may be Printed, R. P.

JOan scrubd up her rooms, made all things clean,
The tables, th[e] chairs, and the edge of the skreen,
She scourd each pispot and pewter-dish
Made ery thing clean as heart could wish;
The pewter and brass was so very clear,
That wanting a glass, she oft drew near,
To d[eck] up her head and curle her hair,
Not one amongst twenty with her could compare.

She made her plumb pottage and sweet mincd-pies,
The rost-beef was laid down when she did rise;
Dinner was ready, and likd so well,
Not one amongst twenty could Joan excel;
They praisd her so much that Joan grew proud,
And then she began to prate aloud,
I will have a husband oft she cryd,
A pretty young-man to lye by my side.

Then out stept a Scot with blew bonnet on,
He lookt full as big as a Spanish don:
His pistol was under his chequerd plade,
His whinyard was made of a Bilbo blade:
Quoth he, bread a gad, the days mine-awn,
Ise as bonny a fellow as eer was knawn,
Ise will ha this lassee before Ise gang beam,
Shell mack me geud langkeal to fill my weam.

He came salute her, but Joan was mad,
And calld the poor scotch-man a sawcy lad,
She took up the ladle and broke his p[a]te,
And told him he profferd his love too late:Deel blin you, quoth Sawny, you nasty slut,
The muckl deel stop hemp in your gut,
Ise n[o]w seck Joan to be my wife,
Shell ene mack me weary of my life.

Then a fine french-man took his place,
His cravet and ruffles where all of lace.
Said he, begar, me comes to dis place,
Me be much in love vid your sweet face,
Me no like no la[d]y vidin this town.
Begar, me no like dem, dey ver much frown;
Me have seen all, me tink deres none
Dat may be compard vid mistriss Joan.

Me be resolve to lose my life
But me vill have Joan to be my wife:
Joan lookd about, and then replyd,
The devil shall be the french-mans bride;
March to your pottage you sinical knave,
Ill ner go to France to be your slave;
Get you out of the kitchin, or else by Mars
This swinging sp[i]t shall run through your a----

Poor monsieur lookt blank and sneakt away,
For his wife nor his life he durst not stay;
The[n] enterd an irish-man and swore
The noise of her beauty brought him ore;
My naam ish Teague, and by my shalw[a]ashon
I prize dy faash bove all in de Naashon,
Den preddee dear joy come kish my shweet faash,
By shaint Phaatrick I never will leave this plaash.

I have a potato-plat of my own,
An a shneeshing-boxh, tish very well known;
I have a schullogue to run by my shide,
I fait and trote thou shalt be my bride.
Be gone bogg-trotter, then Joan did cry,
Or the brom-stick shall on your shoulders lie,
Pack up your awle, and make short of your story,
Or Ill make you pay dear for your vain-glory.

A seaman from Holland then enterd the list,
As drunken a rascal as ever pist;
He brought in his hand a bottle of Nans,
And swore twas the famousest liquor in Fran[ce;]
Twill make you Dutch spraagen before it be [noon,]
Be gone (said she) you drunken clown,
Ill pull the blew rug from off your pate,
If you offer to stay with Joan to prate.

And then Jack Spaniard began to vapour;
With a mighty short cloak and a very long rap[ier,]
He offerd his service and proudly did strut,
But Joan went and gave him a kick with her [foot.]
Ye insolent dog (quoth she) be gone,
Theres none I hate more then a Spanish don,
I mean not to wait upon such a proud sinner
Whilst he is pampring his guts at dinner.

The welch-man hearing the rest were gone,
Resolvd that he would be with her anon,
With leek in his hat, on St. Taffys day
He came to Joan, and thus he did say:
Hur was a prave shentleman in Wales,
Hur has a tood land, cots-plutter-a-nails.
Hur has a fine goat, and hur makes sheese,
Was hur makes hur a lady if now hur please.

But Joan protested she hated them all,
And swore to be at an english mans call;
She k[n]ew their humours and did not doubt
But some or other would chuse her out:At last she married a taylor good lord,
And he the greazy frigat did board;
They both were well pleasd and kindly agreed,
And she from the rest of her suitors was freed.


FINIS.
Printed for P. Brooksby, in Pye-corner.

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