170
Tixall Poetry.
My bon grace, and my sun-burnt face,
He praisd, as alsoe my russet gowne;
But now he doats on the copper lace,
Of some lewd quean of London towne.
He gangs, and he gives her curds and cream,
Whilst I, poor soule, sits sighing at heam,
I ne'er see Sawny but in a dreame,
For now he will ne'er be my love againe.
He praisd, as alsoe my russet gowne;
But now he doats on the copper lace,
Of some lewd quean of London towne.
He gangs, and he gives her curds and cream,
Whilst I, poor soule, sits sighing at heam,
I ne'er see Sawny but in a dreame,
For now he will ne'er be my love againe.
XLVIII.
Another.
Twa bonny lads war Sawny and Jockey,
But Jockey was lov'd, and Sawny unluckie;
Sawny was tall, well favor'd, and witty,
But I in my heart thought Jockie more prittie.
For when he view'd me,
Woo'd me,
Su'd me,
Never was lad more like to have won me.
But Jockey was lov'd, and Sawny unluckie;
Sawny was tall, well favor'd, and witty,
But I in my heart thought Jockie more prittie.
For when he view'd me,
Woo'd me,
Su'd me,
Never was lad more like to have won me.
