The Merry Milk-maids:
OR, THE
Country Damosels Pleasure in their Rural La-
bours. Together with the Second Part, containing the
Plow-man's Praise; concluding with the London Gal-
lants Prodigality.
To the Tune of, The Milking-pail.
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YE Nymphs and Silvian-Gods,
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That loves green fields and woods,
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when spring 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 shooes,
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To 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 thorns
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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 vein,
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their throats do strain,
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to 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're;
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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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through 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 mold,
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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 commode,
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puts on a cart-load,
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And with cusheons 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 a 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 daubt 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 so treat,
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And swears she'll ne'r grow stale;
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whilst the London Lass,
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in e'ry 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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A Country life is sweet,
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In moderate cold and heat,
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to walk in the air,
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how pleasant and fair
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Is every field of wheat;
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the Goddess of flowers,
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adorning the bowers,
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And every meadow now;
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so that I say,
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no Courtier may
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compare with They,
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who cloath'd in gray,
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Do follow the painful Plow.
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They rise with the morning Lark,
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And labour till almost dark,
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then folding their sheep,
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they hasten to sleep,
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While every pleasant park,
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next morning is ringing,
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with Birds that are singing,
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On each green tender bough;
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with what content,
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and merriment,
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their days are spent,
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whose minds are bent,
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To follow the painful Plow.
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Brisk country Lads repair
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To every wake and fair,
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with Sary and Sue,
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Nan, Bridget, and Prue,
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No manner of charge they spare;
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in seasons of leasure,
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thus taking their pleasure,
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Such liberty they allow:
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the rural Train,
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through snow and rain,
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tript o'er the plain,
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with speed again,
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To follow the painful Plow.
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But hectering Sparks at court,
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According to fame's report,
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are commonly foil'd,
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nay, ruin'd and spoil'd
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By following Venus sport;
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but this way of sinning,
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it is the beginning
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Of doting on every Sow,
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who will not fail
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(for mugs of ale)
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to spread her tail;
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these we rail,
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Who follow the painful Plow.
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The Gallant he's sir'd and sir'd,
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By Jenny his pretty Bird,
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he calls her his Honey,
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supplies her with mony,
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Till Frenchefi'd claps the word;
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and then he runs swearing,
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nay, raving and taring,
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And crys, I am ruin'd now;
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and what is worse,
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the Spark does curse
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his empty purse;
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but 'tis not thus
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With any that drives the Plow.
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