An Excellent Old Song, Intitled, Maggy Lauther/The Farmer's Son
THE FARMER'S SON.
SW E E T Nelly, my heart's delight,
Be loving and do not slight,
The proffer I make, for modesty's sake,
I honour your beauty bright;
For love I profess, I can do no less,
Thou hast my favour won;
And since I see your modesty,
I pray agree and fancy me,
Tho' I'm but a farmer's son.
Not I am a lady gay,
'Tis very well known I may,
Have men of renown in country and town,
Sir Roger without delay;
Court Bridget, or Sue, Kate, Nancy or Prue,
their loves will soon be won;
But don t ye dare to speak me fair,
As though I were at my last prayer,
To marry a farmer's son.
My father has riches in store.
Two hundred a year and more,
Besides sheep & cows, carts, harrows & plows,
His age is above threescore;
And when he gives way, then merrily I
Shall have what he has won:
Both land and kine, and all wilt be mine,
If thou'lt incline, and wilt be mine.
And marry a farmer’s son.
A fig for your cattle and corn.
You’re proffer’d'love I scorn;
’Tis known very well, my name is Nell,
And you’re but a bumkin born:
Well since it is so, away I will go.
And I hope no harm is done:
Farewel, adieu, I hope to woo,
As good as you, and win her too,
Tho' I'm but a farmer's son.
Be not in such haste, quoth she.
Perhaps we may agree,
For, man, I protest, I was but in jest,
Come, prithee sit down by me;
For thou art the man that verily can,
Perform what must it be done,
Both straight and tall, genteel withal;
Therefore I shall be at your call
To marry a farmer’s son
Dear Nelly, believe me now,
I solemnly swear and vow,
No lords in their lives make pleasure for their wives,
Like fellows that drive the plow.
For whatever they gain with, labour and pain,
They don t to harlots run.
As courtiers do: I never knew,
A London beau that cou'd outdo,
