[7]
Could I obtain her favour,
Who's won my heart for ever,
But in vain I fear my labour,
She being a Lady born.
But my birth it would degrade her,
But yet I'm bound to love her,
Becauſe ſhe is ſo clever,
I am but a farmer's ſon.
As the ſwain was thus complaining,
His darling was concealed,
Into a ſhady bower,
Near to a myrtle grove,
Where Cupid's bow and quiver,
It made her heart to ſhiver,
And like a wounded lover,
Theſe words to him ſhe ſaid.
How can I thus be cruel,
To you my dearſt jewel,
I love you above all meaſure,
Since that my heart you've won.
There's gold and ſilver bright,
For you my heart's delight,
And before to-morrow's night,
I'll embrace my Farmer’s Son.
_-_Headpiece_3.png)
THE TIPPLING FARMER.
GOOD ale comes and good ale goes,
good ale gart me ſell my hoſe,
