An excellent New Play-house SONG, Called,
The Bonny Milk-Maid,
To an Excellent New Tune.
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YE Nimphs and Sylvian Gods,
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That love green Fields and woods,
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when Springs newly blown,
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herself does adorn
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With Flowers and blooming Buds,
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come sing in the praise,
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whilst Flocks do graze
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In yonder pleasant Vale,
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of those that choose
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their sleep to lose,
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and in cold Dews,
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with clouted shoes,
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Do carry the Milking Pail.
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The Goddess of the morn
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With blushes they adorn,
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and take the fresh Air,
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whilst Linnets prepare
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A Consort on each green thorn:
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the Black-bird and Thrush
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on every bush,
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And the charming Nightingale,
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in merry vain
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their throats do strain,
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go entertain
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the jolly train
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That carry the milking Pail.
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When cold bleak Winds do roar,
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And Flowers can spring no more,
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the fields that were seen
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so pleasant and green,
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By Winter all Candid o'er,
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oh how the town Lass
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looks with her white face,
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And her lips of deadly pale,
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but it is not so
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with those that go
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thro' Frost and Snow,
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with Cheeks that glow,
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To carry the milking pail.
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The Miss of Courtly mould,
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Adorn'd with Pearl and Gold,
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with washes and paint,
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her skin does so taint.
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She's weather'd before she's old,
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whilst she in Comode
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puts on a Cart-load,
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And with Cushions plumps her tail,
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what joys are found
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in Russet Gown,
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young, plump and round,
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and sweet and sound,
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That carry the milking Pail.
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The Girls of Venus Game
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That ventures health and fame,
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in practising feats
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with Colds and with Heats,
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Make Lovers go blind and lame,
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if men were so wise
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to value the prize
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Of the Wares most fit for Sale,
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what store of Beaus
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would daub their cloaths,
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to save a Nose,
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by following those
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That carry the milking Pail.
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The Country Lad is free
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From fears and jealousie,
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when upon the Green
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he is often seen,
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With his Lass upon his knee,
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with Kisses most sweet,
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he does her greet,
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And swears she'll ne'er grow stale,
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whilst the London Lass,
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in e'ery place,
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with her brazen face,
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despises the grace
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Of those with the Milking Pail.
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