A pleasant Country Maying Song.  
To the tune of the Pope's Machina.  

IN this merry Maying time,  
Now comes in the Summer prime.  
Country Damsels fresh and gay,  
Walk abroad to gather May:   

In an evening make a match,  
In in a morning bows to fatch.  
Well is she that first of all,  
Can her lover soon call,   

Meeting him without the town,  
Where he gives his Love a gown.  
Tib was in a gown of grey,  
Tom he had her at a bay.   

Hand in hand they take their way,  
Catching many a roundelay,  
Greeting her with a smile,  
Kissing her at every style.   

Then he leads her to the Spring,  
Where the Primrose reigneth king.  
Upon a bed of Violets blue,  
Down he throws his Lover true.   

She puts finger in the eye,  
And checks him for his quality.  
She bids him to her mother's house,  
To Cakes & Cream & Country souse.   

He must tell her all his mind,  
But she will sigh and stay behind.  
Such a country play as this,  
The maids of our town cannot mis.   

They will in a morning gay,  
Deck themselves and gather May.  
Then they will go crop the flowers,  
Mongst the leaves and Country bowers.   

When our maidens meet together,  
There is praying for fair weather.  
Glad are they to see the Sun,  
That they may play when work is done.   

Some at Dance make a show,  
If they can get leave to go.  
Young men will for maiden's sakes,  
Give them Sugar, Cream & Cakes   

With a cup of dainty Wine,  
And it must be neat and fine.  
Some of them for their good cheer,  
Plays three quarters of a years.   

Thou at the first I liked well,  
Cakes and Cream do make me swell.  
This pretty maiden waxeth big▪  
See what 'tis to play the Rig.   

Up she decks her white and clean,  
To trace the meadows fresh and green▪  
Or to the good town ●he w●ll w●n●  
Where she points to meet her friend.   

Her gown was tucked above the knee,  
Her milk-white smock that you may see.  
Thus her amorous Love and she,  
Sports from eight o clock till three:   

All the while the Cuckoo sings,  
Towards the evening home she flings,  
And brings with her an Oaken bow,  
With a Country Cake or two.   

Strait she tells a solemn tale,  
How she heard the Nightingale,  
And how each meadow greenly springs:  
But yet not how the Cuckoo sings.   

In the merry Maying time,  
Love is in her chiefest prime.  
What for Gentlemen and Clowns,  
Our country maids can want no gowns.   

Sillibubs and dainty cheer,  
Young men lack not all the year.  
All the maidens in the street.  
With the bonny Yonkers meet.   

All the while the grass is green,  
And the Daisies grow between,  
Dick and Tom do walk the fields,  
Still to trip up maiden's heels.   

Thus the Robin and the Thrush,  
Music make in every bush.  
While they charm their pretty notes,  
Young men hurl up maiden's cates.   

But 'cause I will do them no wrong,  
Here I end my Maying song,  
And wish my friends take heed in time.  
How they spend their Summer's prime.   
FINIS.   

Printed at London for T.L.