Five favourite songs (11)/The Golden Glove

SONGS.

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THE GOLDEN GLOVE.

A wealthy young 'squire of Tamworth we hear.
He courted a nobleman’s daughter so fair;
And for to marry her it was his intent,
All friends and relations had given their consent.

The time was appointed for the wedding-day,
A young farmer was chosen the father to be;
As soon as the lady the farmer did spy,
It flamed her heart, O my heart, she did cry.

She turned from the ’squire, nothing she said,
Instead of being married she went to her bed.
The thoughts of the farmer still run in her mind,
The way for to have him she soon then did find.

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on.
And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun;
She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell,
Because in her heart she lov’d him so well.

She oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed,
At length the young farmer came into the field;

Then for to talk with him it was her intent,
With her dog and gun to meet him she went

I thought you had been at the wedding, she cry’d,
To wait on the ’squire to give him his bride;
No, sir, said the farmer, if the truth I may tell,
I’ll not give her away, for I love her too well.

Suppose that the lady should grant you her love,
You know that the ’squire your rival will prove;
O then, says the farmer, I’ll take sword in hand,
By honour I’ll gain her, or my life’s at command.

It pleased the lady to hear him so bold,
And she gave him a glove that was flower’d with gold,
She told him she found it in coming along,
As she was a-hunting with her dog and her gun.

The lady went homo with her heart full of love,
And she gave out a speech she had lost her glove;
And the man that does find it and bring it to me,
The man that does find it, his bride I shall be.

The farmer was pleased when he heard the news———
With a heart full of joy to his lady he goes;
Dear honoured lady, I’ve pick’d up your glove,
If you will be pleased to grant me your love.

It is already granted, I will be your bride,
I love the sweet breath of a farmer, she cry’d;
I’ll be mistress of the dairy and milking the cows,

While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plows.