The Happy Husbandman OR, Country Innocence.  
To a pleasant New Court Tune.  

This may be Printed,  
R. P.   
 
 

MY young Mary does mind the Dairy,  
while I go a Howing, and Mowing each Morn;  
Then hay the little Spinning Wheel▪  
Merrily round does Reel while I am singing amidst the Corn:  
Cream and Kisses both are my Delight,  
She gives me them, and the joys of Night;  
She's soft as the Air,  
As Morning fair,  
Is not such a Maid a most pleasing sight?   

While I whistle, she front the Thistle  
does gather Down for to make us a Bed,  
And then my little Love does lie  
All the Night long, and die  
in the kind Arms of her noun dear Ned,  
There I taste of a delicate Spring,  
But I must not tell you, nor name, the thing,  
To put you, a Wishing,  
And think of Kissing,  
For Kisses cause sight and young Men 〈…〉.   

Sedge and Rushes, and tops of Bushes  
shall thatch our Roof, and shall strew all our Floor,  
And then the pretty Nightingales.  
Will fly from Groves and Dales  
to live with us, and we'll ne'er be Poor:  
Little Lambkins, whenever they die  
Will bequeath new Blankets is thee and I,  
Our Quilts, shall be, Roses  
Which June disposes:  
So warm and so sweet my young Love shall be.   

Fountains pure shall be thy Ewer  
to sprinkle Water upon thy fair Face;  
And near the little Flock shall play  
All the long Summer's Day;  
gentle white Lambs will adorn the Place.  
Then at Night we'll high home to our Hive,  
And (like Bees) enjoy all the sweets, alive;  
We'll taste all Love's Treasure,  
And enjoy that Pleasure,  
While others for Fame and for Greatness strive.   

No Man's Frowns are on the Downs,  
for truly there we most freely may sing,  
And kiss the pretty Nancies,  
While Changes end Chances  
amuse all the Great, and Disturbance bring.  
We will with our young Lambs go to Bed,  
And observe the Lives that our Fathers led;  
We'll mind not Ambition,  
Nor sow Sedition,  
And leave State-Affairs to the Stateman's Head.   

Oaten Reeds (those humble Weeds)  
shall be the Pipes upon which we will play,  
And on the merry Mountain,  
Or else by a Fountain,  
we'll merrily pass the sweet time away:  
Sure no Mortal can blame us for this.  
And now mark the way of your London Miss,  
She masters your Breeches,  
And takes your Riches,  
While we have more joys by a harmless Kiss   

No Youth here need Willow wear,  
no beauteous Maid will her Lover destroy:  
The gentle little Lass will yield  
In the soft Dairy Field,  
freely our Pleasures we here enjoy:  
No great Juno we boldly desk,  
With young Cloris Cheeks, or fair Celia's Eye;  
We let all these things alone,  
And enjoy our own,  
Every Night with our Beauty's lie,    

Printed-for P. Brooksby at the Golden-Ball Pie-corner.