The Country FARMER: OR, THE Buxom VIRGIN.  
To a New Tune. called, Newmarket, or King James' Jig;  
 
 

THere was a brisk Lass both Bonny and Brown,  
That courted her Sweet heart, in our Town,  
She laid by her work, her wheel, and Yarn,  
To find out her love in the Farmer's Barn,  
Quoth she, if thou wilt be married,  
We'll high to the Priest, then to bed,  
My Virgin Treasure i'll give thee Ned,  
That is to be plain my Maidenhead.  
You know that my love is a Flame of Fire,  
And burns when it cannot obtain desire,  
My Beauty is now in its bloom and prime,  
And I cannot, nor wonot delay the time:   

I long for to taste of those tender joys,  
Those soft Kisses, and wanton Toys,  
That every Maid in her Wedding enjoys,  
When Lasses with Lovers get lusty Boys.  
A Garland of Flowers my love shall wear,  
And i'll give him a lock of my coal-black-hair,  
At every Wake my love i'll treat,  
And i'll give him kind busses as Cream-Bowls sweet;  
Thou shalt be my Buck and i'll be thy do,  
And i'll Milk, and thou shalt mow,  
I'll Card, and i'll Spin, while, you Harrow and sow  
And call upon Dobbin with Hey-ge-woe.   

Quoth Ned, for your Love I take no care,  
But busy myself with my Blow, and Mate.  
Young Cupid I think is a lazy Loon,  
And besides I intent for to marry Joan?  
Quoth Nell, as for Joan she will never Wed,  
She lies like an Eunuch in her dull Bed,  
She's ugly, and Old, looks paler than Lead,  
Not like a Brisk Lass of a Woman bred.   

Young Colin upon Martilla's Cheeks  
A thousand delightful pleasures seeks,  
He kisses her of't by her own goodwill,  
And will scarcely once let her all night lie still:  
Come touch but my lips, with those lips of thine,  
They are all melting, and all divine,  
Like Grapes that appear on the Springing Vine,  
As plump, and as soft, and as sweet as thine,   

My dearest quoth Ned, i'll but clout my shoes,  
And we will be Married before 'tis noon:  
I'll go to the Church and a Licence bring,  
And buy thee a dainty fine Golden Ring:  
I'll give thee to ride on my pacing Rouen,  
With the Grey Pillian I lent to Joan,  
Ah! ways me poor Jugg, how will she make moan,  
That Fate has designed her to lie alone.   

While Jugg feels the pains of Cupid's Dart,  
That wounds the breast of each Lover's heart,  
She'll sit and she'll sigh upon the Plain,  
And rehearse her disloyal Shepherd's name,  
While thee my dear Gill in my arms i'll hug,  
And hide thee in the soft Sheet and Rugg,  
Poor joan shall look pale, that never looked smugg,  
Adieu to my gentle sweet jugg-iugg-iugg.   

Though Juggy be crusty what need I care,  
For she may have Lovers enough to space,  
But now she is lately so sour grown,  
She minds not the youngmen that make their moan,  
Yet lusty for Life, and full of good will,  
I was yesterday, so I am still,  
Ale bring all my Grist to my true Lover's Mill,  
And hug and make much of my Gill, Gill, Gill,   
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pyecorner