THE West-Country Maids advice;  
Here is a Song I send to you,  
fair Maidens every one;  
And you may say that it is true,  
when I am dead and gone.  
To the Tune of, hay Boys, up go we.  
 
 
 

FAir Maids draw near to me a while  
and I'll my mind declare,  
This song I hope will make you smile,  
when once you do it hear:  
For youngmen are so fickle grown,  
and false in every way,  
Their whole delight is day and night,  
fair Maids for to betray.   

Thus I would have fair Maidens all,  
for to be Ruled by me,  
Although your portions be but small,  
to them do not agree:  
For if a husband once you you get,  
that should be cross to thee,  
You'll then repent that e'er you went  
to Church to Married be.   

Therefore keep close your Maidenhead,  
which now you have in store,  
For if you once should be misled,  
you'll not enjoy it more:  
And then such troubles comes apace,  
as you ne'er thought upon,  
And this will be your woeful case,  
by taking of a man.   
 
 

There was a Maid which well I knew,  
was lately made a Bride,  
Her Father gave her goods, 'tis true,  
she a Portion had beside;  
Yet this poor Lass did meet an Ass,  
would always scold and brawl,  
The other day he ran away,  
and left Wife, Child, and all.   

Therefore observe young Maidens all,  
take heed how you do wed,  
For you may quickly take a fall,  
and bring a Knave to bed:  
For Youngmen are so fickle grown,  
as I have here expressed,  
It's good to let them all alone,  
a single life is best.   

I say, by chance that you may meet,  
a youngman that is true,  
Then you may count your Fortune great,  
because there are so few:  
Not one in ten, amongst youngmen,  
is true I do protest,  
I'll keep myself as I have been,  
a single life is best.   

Why should a Maid confined be,  
to any man alive,  
You shall have Snaps and Flouts you'll fin●  
when once you're made a Wife:  
For husbands are so Hoggish grown,  
there Wives shall take no rest,  
Therefore let all youngmen alone,  
a single life is best.   

And now I have declared my mind,  
I hope you'll not me blame,  
For to a Woman I am kind,  
and Toby is my name;  
And I do live in Devon-Shire,  
to many 'tis well known,  
I wish all Maids that do me hear,  
be sure to hold their own.   

And so I do conclude and end,  
having no more to say,  
Pray take the Author for your friend,  
and for this Ballad pay:  
A penny is the price of it,  
you'll say it is not dear,  
And say it is a Ballad true,  
came out of Devon-Shire.   
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball, near the Hospital-gate, in West-Smithfield