THE
West-Country Maids advice;
Here is a Song I send to you,
fair Maidens every one;
And you may say that it is true,
when I am dead and gone.
To the Tune of, Hey Boys, up go we.
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FAir Maids draw near to me a while
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and I'le my mind declare,
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This song I hope will make you smile,
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when once you do it hear:
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For young-men are so fickle grown,
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and false in every way,
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Their whole delight is day and night,
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fair Maids for to betray.
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Thus I would have fair Maidens all,
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for to be Rul'd by me,
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Although your portions be but small,
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to them do not agree:
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For if a husband once you you get,
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that should be cross to thee,
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You'l then repent that e're you went
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to Church to Married be.
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Therefore keep close your Maiden-head,
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which now you have in store,
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For if you once should be misled,
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you'l not enjoy it more:
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And then such troubles comes apace,
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as you ne'r thought upon,
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And this will be your woful case,
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by taking of a man.
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There was a Maid which well I knew,
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was lately made a Bride,
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Her Father gave her goods, 'tis true,
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she a Portion had beside;
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Yet this poor Lass did meet an Ass,
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would always scold and brawl,
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The other day he ran away,
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and left Wife, Child, and all.
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Therefore observe young Maidens all,
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take heed how you do wed,
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For you may quickly take a fall,
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and bring a Knave to bed:
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For Young-men are so fickle grown,
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as I have here exprest,
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It's good to let them all alone,
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a single life is best.
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I say, by chance that you may meet,
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a young-man that is true,
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Then you may count your Fortune great,
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because there are so few:
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Not one in ten, amongst young-men,
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is true I do protest,
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I'le keep my self as I have been,
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a singe life is best.
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Why should a Maid confined be,
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to any man alive,
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You shall have Snaps and Flouts you'l find
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when once you'r made a Wife:
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For husbands are so Hoggish grown,
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there Wives shall take no rest,
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Therefore let all young-men alone,
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a single life is best.
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And now I have declar'd my mind,
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I hope you'l not me blame,
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For to a Woman I am kind,
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and Toby is my name;
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And I do live in Devon-Shire,
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to many 'tis well known,
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I wish all Maids that do me hear,
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besure to hold their own.
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And so I do conclude and end,
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having no more to say,
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Pray take the Author for your friend,
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and for this Ballad pay:
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A penny is the price of it,
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you'l say it is not dear,
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And say it is a Ballad true,
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came out of Devon-Shire.
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