The Merry Plow-Man,
AND
Loving Milk-Maid
See how the loving Country-Men
And Maidens do agree;
While they express their happiness,
And both contented be.
To the Tune of, Jenny Gin, Hey Boys up go we, the fair one let me in.
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WE that do lead a Country Life,
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in pleasures do abound,
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We still live free from care and strife,
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and are encompass'd round
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With such content, that Mortal Men
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no happier can be;
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And London Gallants tell me then
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who lives so well as we.
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We have the pleasant Fields and Groves,
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wherein we take delight,
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And there we walk with our true Loves,
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when Luna shines most bright;
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And those that have great store of wealth,
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no happier can they be,
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We work full hard, and have our health,
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and who so merry as we.
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The murmuring Rivers by us glide,
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where tipling Fishes play,
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While our true Loves walk by our side,
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to pass the time away;
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Such sweets and comforts we possess,
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with true felicity,
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That none enjoys more happiness,
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nor more content, than we.
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OUr true Loves with their Milking-pales
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go merrily along,
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And foot it o're the Hills and Dales,
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singing a merry song:
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And nothing doth our Loves molest,
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but chearful still we be,
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And think ourselves of all most blest,
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such happy Men are we.
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We use no flattering Complements,
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our Sweet-hearts to betray,
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But plainly tell them our intents,
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and mean what we do say;
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While London Citizens pretend
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such store of constancy,
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Our Loves do last to our lives end,
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and none more true than we.
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No jealous thoughts possess our breast,
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but we contented are,
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Both night and day we are at rest,
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and Strangers are to care:
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From doubts, from discontents, and fears,
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no Mortals live more free,
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And thus most plainly it appears,
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none happier are than we.
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But mind how each tite Country Lass
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doth trip it o're the Plain,
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Aa they the silent Meadows pass,
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their amorous Notes they strain;
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And when we hear their lovely Charms,
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so sweet they seem to be,
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We often wish them in our Arms,
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such loving Souls are we.
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And when we to the Fold do go,
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to over-see our Flocks,
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Who sometimes wander to and fro,
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and Graze amongst the Rocks:
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To think upon our hearts delights,
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so pleasant seems to be,
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That Gentlemen, and worthy Knights,
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know no such joys as we.
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Thus we that often drive the Plows,
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have share of Earthly Bliss,
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And from the Maids that Milk the Cows,
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we oft steal many a Kiss;
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To Feasts and Fairs we often go,
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where divers sports we see,
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And when bright Phoebus groweth low,
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then home again walk we.
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And thus the lusty Country Lad
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doth spend his vacant hours,
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With her who makes his heart full glad,
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amongst the shady Bowers:
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And often tumbles his true Love,
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beneath the Myrtle Tree,
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Since nothing can our joys remove,
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what Men so blest as we.
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