An Excellent SONG,
CALL'D,
LULLABY.
To a pleasant Tune.
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COme little Babe, come silly Soul,
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thy Father's Shame, and Mother's Grief,
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Born, as I doubt to all out Doles,
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unto thyself unhappy chief.
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Sing Lullaby, and keep it warm,
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Poor Soul, it thinks no Creature harm;
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Thou little think'st, and least dost know,
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the cause of this thy Mother's moan,
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Thou wantest wit to wail her woe,
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and I myself am left alone:
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Why dost thou weep, why dost thou wail,
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And knowest not what thou dost ail?
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Come, silly Wretch; ah, silly Heart,
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my only Joy, what can I more?
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If there be any wrong, thy smart,
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that may thy Destiny deplore,
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'Tis I, I say, against my will,
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I wait the time, but be thou still;
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And dost thou smile? O thou sweet Face!
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I would thy Dad the same might see,
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No doubt but it would purchace Grace,
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I know it would be for thee and me.
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But come to Mother, Babe and play,
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Poor Father, false, is fled away.
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Sweet Babe, if't be thy Fortune change,
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thy Father home again to send,
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If Death doth strike me with his Launce,
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yet may'st thou me to him commend:
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If any ask thy Mother's Name,
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Tell them by Love she purchast Blame;
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Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
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I know him of a noble Mind,
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Although a Lyon in the Field,
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a Lamb in Town thou shalt him find:
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Ask blessing Lad, be not afraid,
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His sugar'd Lips hath me betray'd.
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Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
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although in Woe I seem to mourn,
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Thy Father is no Rascal, Lad,
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an able Youth of Blood and Bone;
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His glancing Look, if he once smile,
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Right honest Women will beguile.
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Come little Boy, and rock asleep,
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sing Lullaby, and do not cry,
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I can do nought else but weep,
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and sit by thee, the Lullaby;
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God bless the Babe and Lullaby,
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From this thy Father's Cruelty.
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