The Merry Milkmaids:  
OR, THE Country Damosels Pleasure in their Rural Labours. Together with the Second Part, containing the Plowman's Praise; concluding with the London Gallant Prodigality.  
To the Tune of, The Milking-pail.  
 

YE Nymphs and Silvian-Gods,  
That loves green fields and woods,  
when spring newly blown,  
herself does adorn  
With flowers and blooming buds;  
come sing in the praise  
(whilst flocks do graze  
In yonder pleasant vale)  
of those that choose,  
their sleep to lose,  
and in cold dews,  
with clouted shoes,  
To carry the Milking-pail.   

The Goddess of the morn,  
With blushes they adorn,  
and take the fresh air;  
whilst kinnets prepare  
I consort on each green thorn;  
the Blackbird and Thrush,  
on every bush,  
And the charming Nightingale,  
in merry vein,  
their throats do strain,  
to entertain  
the jolly train  
That carry the Milking-pail.   

When cold bleak winds do roar,  
And flowers can spring no more,  
the fields that were seen  
so pleasant and green.  
By winter all candid o'er;  
oh, how the Town Lass  
looks with her while fac●  
And her lips of deadly pale!  
but it is not so  
with those that go  
through frost and snow,  
with cheeks that glow,  
To carry the Milking-pail.   

The Miss of courtly mould,  
Adorned with pearl and gold,  
with washeses and paint,  
her skin does so taint,  
She's weathered before she's old,  
whilst she in commode,  
puts on a cartload,  
And with cusheons plumps her tail;  
what joys are found  
in russet-gown,  
young, plump, and round,  
and sweet, and sound,  
That carry the Milking-pail?   

The Girls of Venus' game,  
That ventures health a fame,  
in practising feats,  
with colds and with heats,  
Make Lovers go blind and lame;  
if Men were so wise  
to value the prize  
Of the wares most fit for salt,  
what store of beaus,  
would daubt their clothes,  
to save a nose,  
by following those  
That carry the Milking-pail.   

The country Lad is free,  
From fears and jealousy,  
when upon the green  
he is often seen  
With his Lass upon his knee,  
with kisses, most sweet,  
he does her so treat,  
And swears she'll ne'er grow stale;  
whilst the London Lass,  
in ev'ry place,  
with her brazen face,  
despises the grate  
Of those with the Milking-pail.   
The PLOWMAN's Answer.  

A Country life is sweet,  
In moderate cold and heat,  
to walk in the air,  
how pleasant and fair  
Is every field of wheat;  
the Goddess of flowers,  
adorning the ●owers,  
And every meadow now;  
so that I say,  
no Courtier may  
compare with They,  
who clothed in grey,  
Do follow the painful Blow.   

They rise with the morning Lark,  
And labour till almost dark,  
then folding their sherp,  
they hasten to sleep,  
While every pleasant park,  
next morning is ringing,  
with Birds that are singing,  
On each green tender bough;  
with what content,  
and merriment,  
their days are spent,  
whose minds are bend,  
To follow the painful Blow.   

Brisk country Lads repair  
To every wake and fair,  
with Sary and Sue,  
Nan, Bridget, and Prue,  
No manner of charge they spare,  
in seasons of leisure,  
thus taking their pleasure,  
Such liberty they allow:  
the rural Train,  
through snow and rain,  
tripped o'er the plain,  
with speed again,  
To follow the painful Blow.   

But hectering Sparks at court,  
According to fame's report,  
are commonly foiled,  
nay, ruin'd and spoiled  
By following Venus' sport;  
but this way of sinning,  
it is the beginning  
Of doting on every Sow,  
who will not fail  
(for mugs of ale)  
to spread her tail;  
'gainst these we rail,  
Who follow the painful Blow.   

The Gallant he's fir'd and fir'd,  
By Jenny his pretty Bird,  
he calls her his Honey,  
supplies her with money,  
Till Frenchesied claps the word;  
and then he runs swearing,  
Nay, raving and taring,  
And cries, I am ruined now;  
and what is worse,  
the Spark does curse  
his empty purse;  
but 'tis not thus  
With any that drives the Blow.   
FINIS.   

Licenced and Entered according to Order.   

LONDON: Printed for J. Deacon, at the sign of the Angel, in Guiltspur-street, Without Newgate.