Ten miles unto a market

I run to meet a miser;
Then in a throng I nip his bung,
And the party ne'er the wiser.
Still do I cry, &c.

My dainty Dals, my Doxies,
Whene'er they see me lacking,
Without delay, poor wretches, they
Will set their duds a-packing.
Still do I cry, &c.

I pay for what I call for,

And so perforce it must be ;
For as yet I can not know the man
Nor hostess that will trust me.
Still do I cry, &c.

If any give me lodging,

A courteous knave they find me ;
For in their bed, alive or dead,
I leave some lice behind me.
Still do I cry, &c.

If a gentry coe be coming,

Then straight (it is our fashion)
My leg I tie close to my thigh,
To move him to compassion.
Still do I cry, &c.

My doublet-sleeve hangs empty;
And, for to beg the bolder
For meat and drink, mine arm I shrink,
Up close unto my shoulder.

Still do I cry, &c.

If a coach I hear be rumbling,
To my crutches then I hie me;
For, being lame, it is a shame
Such gallants should deny me.
Still do I cry, &c.

With a seeming bursten belly,
I look like one half dead, Sir;
Or else I beg with a wooden leg,
And a night-cap on my head, Sir.
Still do I cry, &c.

In winter-time stark naked

I come into some city;

Then every man that spare them can
Will give me clothes for pity.

Still do I cry, &c.

If from out the Low-country
I hear a captain's name, Sir,
Then straight I swear I have been there,
And so in fight came lame, Sir.
Still do I cry, &c.

My dog in a string doth lead me,
When in the town I go, Sir;
For to the blind all men are kind,
And will their alms bestow, Sir.
Still do I cry, &c.

With switches sometimes stand I
In the bottom of a hill, Sir;
There those men which do want a switch
Some money give me still, Sir.
Still do I cry, &c.

"Come buy, come buy, a horn-book!
Who buys my pins or needles?"
In cities I these things do cry
Oft-times to scape the beadles,
Still do I cry, &c.

In Paul's church by a pillar

Sometimes you see me stand, Sir,

With a writ that shows what care and woes
I passed by sea and land, Sir.

Still do I cry, &c.

Now blame me not for boasting
And bragging thus alone, Sir;
For myself I will be praising still,
For neighbours have I none, Sir.
Which makes me cry, "Good your
worship, good Sir,

Bestow one small denire, Sir;"
And bravely then at the boozing-ken
I'll booze it all in beer, Sir.

A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT FOR SHREWS.

WHO marrieth a wife upon a Monday,
If she will not be good upon a Tuesday,
Let him go to the wood upon a Wednesday,
And cut him a cudgel upon the Thursday,
And pay her soundly upon a Friday:

And she mend not, the divil take her a' Saturday:
Then he may eat his meat in peace on the Sunday.

LINES ON A PRINTING OFFICE,

THE world's a printing-house. Our words, our thoughts, Our deeds, are characters of several sizes.

Each soul is a compos'tor, of whose faults

The Levites are correctors; Heaven revises.

Death is the common press; from whence being driven,
We're gathered sheet by sheet, and bound for heaven.

THE MAY-POLE.

COME, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads,

And away to the may-pole hie;

For every he has got him a she,

And the minstrel's standing by;

For Willie has gotten his Jill,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To jig it, jig it, jig it,

Jig it up and down.

"Strike up," says Wat. "Agreed," says Kate,

"And I prithee, fiddler, play.'

"Content," says Hodge, and so says Madge,
For this is a holiday.

Then every man did put

His hat off to his lass,

And every girl did curchy,

Curchy, curchy on the grass.

"Begin," says Hal. "Aye, aye," says Mall,
"We'll lead up Packington's Pound."
"No, no," says Noll, and so says Doll,
"We'll first have Sellenger's Round."

Then every man began

To foot it round about;

And every girl did jet it,

Jet it, jet it, in and out.

"You're out," says Dick. ""Tis a lie," says Nick;

"The fiddler played it false."

""Tis true," says Hugh, and so says Sue,

And so says nimble Alice.

The fiddler then began

To play the tune again;

And every girl did trip it, trip it,

Trip it to the men.

"Let's kiss," says Jane.1

And so says every she.

"Content," says Nan,

"How many?" says Batt. "Why three," says Matt,

"For that's a maiden's fee."

But they, instead of three,

Did give them half a score;

And they in kindness gave 'em, gave 'em,

Gave 'em as many more.

Then after an hour they went to a bower,
And played for ale and cakes;

And kisses, too ;-until they were due,
The lasses kept the stakes.

The girls did then begin

To quarrel with the men ;

And bid 'em take their kisses back,
And give them their own again.

Yet there they sate, until it was late,
And tired the fiddler quite,

With singing and playing, without any paying,

From morning unto night.

They told the fiddler then

They'd pay him for his play;

And each a two-pence, two-pence,

Gave him, and went away.

"Good night," says Harry; "Good night," says Mary; "Good night," says Dolly to John;

"Good night," says Sue; Good night," says Hugh; "Good night," says every one.

Some walked, and some did run,

Some loitered on the way;

And bound themselves with love-knots, love-knots,
To meet the next holiday.

THERE WAS AN OLD MAN CAME OVER THE LEA.

THERE was an old man came over the Lea;
Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won't have he.

He came over the Lea,

A-courting to me,

With his grey beard newly shaven.

My mother she bid me open the door :

I opened the door,

And he fell on the floor.

1 Some copies say "Pan," and this reading has not been without its defender. I can hardly suppose "Pan' to be right but surely it ought to be a male name of some sort-probably "Dan.”

My mother she bid me set him a stool:
I set him a stool,

And he looked like a fool.

My mother she bid me give him some beer:
gave him some beer,

And he thought it good cheer.

My mother she bid me cut him some bread:
I cut him some bread,

And I threw't at his head.

My mother she bid me light him to bed:
I lit him to bed,

And wished he were dead.

My mother she bid me tell him to rise:
I told him to rise,

And he opened his eyes.

My mother she bid me take him to church:
I took him to church,

And left him in the lurch,

With his grey beard newly shaven.

THE NEW LITANY.

FROM an extempore prayer and a godly ditty,
From the churlish government of a city,

From the power of a country committee,

Libera nos, Domine.

From the Turk, the Pope, and the Scottish nation,
From being governed by proclamation,

And from an old Protestant, quite out of fashion,
Libera nos, Domine.

From meddling with those that are out of our reaches,
From a fighting priest, and a soldier that preaches,

From an ignoramus that writes, and a woman that teaches,
Libera nos, Domine.

From the doctrine of deposing of a king,
From the Directory, or any such thing,
From a fine new marriage without a ring,

Libera nos, Domine.

i The Directory for the Public Worship of God, ordered by the Assembly of Divines at Westminster in 1644, to supersede the Book of Common Prayer.