The MILKING PAIL,
To its own proper Tune.
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YE Nymphs and Sylvian Gods
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that love green Fields and Woods,
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When Spring newly born, her self does adorn
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with Flowers and blooming Buds;
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Come singing the Praise while Flocks does grase
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in yonder pleasant Vail:
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Or those that chuse their Sleep to loose,
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And in Cold goes with clouted Shoes,
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to carry the Milking Pail.
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You Goddess of the Morn,
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With Blushes you adorn,
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Do take fresh Air, while Linets prepare,
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a Consort in each Green Thorn;
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The Black-Bird and Thrush in every Bush,
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and the Charming Nightingale,
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Who in a merry Vein their Throats do strain,
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To entertain the jolly Train,
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of those of the Milking Pail.
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When cold black Winds do roar,
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And Fields will spring no more,
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The Flowers that were seen, so pleasant & green,
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with Winter all candi'd o're,
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And how the Town Lass with her white Face,
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and her Lips so deadly pale:
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But it is not so with those that go
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Through Frost & Snow, with Cheeks that glow,
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and carry the Milking Pail.
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The Misses of courtly Mold,
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Adorn'd with Pearl and Gold,
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With Washes and Tent her Skin doth paint,
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that she's wither'd before she grow old;
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While she of Commode puts on a Cart Load,
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and with Cushens plumps her Tail:
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What Joys are found in rushie Ground?
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Young plump and sound, sweet and round,
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of those of the Milking Pail.
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You Girles of Venus Game,
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That ventures Health and Fame,
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In practising Feats with Cold and Heats,
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makes Lovers grow blind and lame,
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If Men were so wise to value the Prize,
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of the Wares most fit for the Sale:
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What Store of Beaus, would dob their Cloaths,
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To save a Nose by following those
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who carry the Milking Pail.
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The Country Lad is free,
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From Fears and Jelousie,
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Whilst upon the Green, he is often seen,
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with his Lassie on his Knee;
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With Kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
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and swears, He'l ne're grow thral;
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But the London Lass in every Place,
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With Brazen Face despise the Grace,
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of those of the Milking Pail.
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