Maid milking her cow/The Maid Milking Her Cow

The MAID MILKING her COW.

IT was on summer's morning,
as birds sweetly sung on each bough,
I heard a fair maid sweetly singing,
⁠as she sat a milking her cow

She sung with a voice so melodious,
⁠that made me scarce able to go;
My heart it was smother'd with sorrow,
⁠by the pretty maid milking her cow.

I courteously thus did salute her.——
⁠Good-morrow, fair amorous maid,
I'n your captive slave for the future,——
⁠Kind sir do not banter she said;

I'm not such a precious jewel,
⁠that you could remember me so;
I'm but a plain country girl,
⁠said the pretty maid milking her cow.

All India can afford no such jewel,
⁠so charming or transparent fair;
Pray do not add flames to my fuel,
⁠but content and love me, my dear.

Take pity, and grant my desire,
⁠and leave me no longer in woe;
Come love, or die I'll expire
⁠you pretty maid milking your cow.

I don’t understand what you mean, Sir,
⁠I’ve ne’er been a slave yet to love;
Such ambers I seldom experienc'd,
⁠therefore your affections remove,

To marry, then I can assure you,
⁠is a thing that I can’t undergo,
Therefore young man, pray excuse me,——
⁠said the pretty maid milking her cow.

No young man could excuse you,
⁠or it would be against his own will;
To pen your perfection in beauty
⁠some volumes I’m sure it would fill.

I would patiently wait for an answer,
⁠my destiny pray let me know;
Your consent, till death, be the ransom,
⁠you pretty maid milking your cow.

I pray, Sir, withdraw, and don't teaze me
⁠I'll never consent unto thee;
I like to live single and easy,
⁠till more of this world I see:

Lest care it should early embrace me,
⁠beside that my fortune is lowl;
Until I grow rich. I'll not marry ——
⁠said the pretty maid milking her cow.

To say you will wait for a fortune,
⁠is a civil way to deny,
And I have got money and cattle,
⁠dear love, all your wants to supply.

Delays are attended with dangers,
⁠and youth it hath no second spring;
And likewise when beauty is faded,
⁠in never will return again.

A fair maid is like a ship sailing,
⁠she knows not how long safe she'll go,
For in every blast she’s in danger,
⁠you pretty maid milking your cow.

An old maid is like an old almanack,
⁠useless when once out of date;
If her ware is not sold in the morning,
⁠at noon it goes at a low rate.

The fragrance of noon is soon over,
⁠garnished with beauty you know;
All blooms are consum’d in October,
⁠you pretty maid milking your cow.