The merry careless Lover: OR, A pleasant new Ditty, called, I love a lass since yesterday, And yet I cannot get her.  
To the tune of, The Mother beguiled the Daughter.  
 

OFt have I heard of many men,  
which love have sore tormented,  
With grief of heart, and bitter smart,  
and minds much discontented.  
Such love to me shall never be  
Distasteful, grievous bitter.  
I have loved a lass since yesterday,  
and yet I cannot get her.  
But let her choose, if she refuse,  
and go to take another:  
I will not grieve, but still will be  
the merry careless Lover.   

I will no foolish Lover be,  
to waste my means upon her:  
But if she do prove firm to me,  
in heart I will her honour.  
And if she scorn my part to take,  
I know a way to fit her,  
My heart with grief shall never ache,  
what man soever get her.  
Then let her choose, if she refuse,  
and go to take another, &c.   

And yet I know not what to think,  
she makes a show she loves me,  
What need I fear from me she'll shrink,  
some foolish passion moves me,  
Sometimes to hope, sometimes to fear,  
it hangs upon a Twitter,  
Whether she hates or loves me dear,  
to lose her, or to get her.  
But let her choose, if she refuse &c.   

Some women they are in firm in love,  
and some they are uncertain,  
Scarce one in twenty loyal prove,  
yet if it were my fortune  
To get this lass unto my wife,  
I know not one more fitter,  
In lawful love to lead our lives,  
i● 'twere my hap to get her.  
But let her choose, &c.   

I am a man indifferent,  
whether she will or will not  
My sweetheart be for to love me,  
if she does not, it skills not.  
If she fancy me, I'll constant be,  
this lass she is a Knitter.  
And I have her loved since yesterday,  
but yet I cannot get her.  
But let her choose, if she refuse,  
and go to take another,  
I'll never grieve, but still will be  
the merry careless Lover.   

The second part,  
To the same tune.  
 
 

THis lass she doth in Yorkshire live,  
there in a town called Forset,  
Her mind to labour she doth give,  
she can knit silk or Worset.  
I know not well what I should say,  
in speech she's sometimes bitter,  
And I have her loved since yesterday,  
and yet I cannot get he.  
But let her choose, if she refuse,  
And go to take another,  
I'll never grieve, but still will be  
the merry careless Lover.   

Sometimes she will upon me smile,  
and sometimes she is sullen,  
As she doth sit, and stockings knits,  
of jersey and of woollen,  
She gets the praise above the rest,  
to be a curious Knitter:  
She loves me, as she doth profess,  
and yet I cannot get her.  
But let her choose, &c.   

Her Portion is not very much,  
but for the same what care I,  
So she with me will but keep touch,  
and not in mind will vary,  
For pelf I do not pass a straw,  
her beauty likes me better,  
For I have her loved since yesterday,  
and yet I cannot get her.  
But let her choose, &c.   

I will bethink me what is best  
a way for to be taken,  
Her love to gain, and her obtain,  
I would not be forsaken,  
Nor would I have her say me nay,  
nor give me speeches bitter,  
For I have her loved since yesterday,  
and yet I cannot get her.  
But let her choose, &c.   

I have her father's free consent,  
that she with me should marry:  
Her Mother likewise is content,  
and grieves that she should carry  
So proud a mind, or be unkind  
to me in speeches bitter,  
For I bear to her a loving mind,  
and yet I cannot get her.  
But let her choose, &c.   

With her I at a Wedding was,  
where we did dance together,  
She is a curious handsome lass,  
and yet like wind and weather,  
Her mind doth change, she's kind, she's strange,  
Mild, gentle, cruel, bitter,  
Yet howe'er I love her dear,  
and yet I cannot get her.  
But let her choose, &c.   

Yet will I hope upon the best,  
all foolish fears excluding,  
And at her faithful service rest,  
thus here in brief concluding,  
With some dear friend to her I'll send,  
a kind and loving letter,  
And hope in time her love to gain,  
and for my Wife to get her.  
And then I'll sing with merry cheer,  
this Ditty and no other,  
whilst breath doth last, and life be past,  
I will be a faithful Lover.    
FINIS.  By Robert Guy.  

Printed at London for F. Coules.