( 9 )
Sure had there been a cannon-ball,
with such a force it flow,
It would have beaten down the Wall,
perhaps the chimney too.
She gave another cursed look,
then straight her bum did roar;
At which the very table shook,
which sham'd her more and more.
The lad reply'd, dear mother, take
a cup before your parting,
For I am confident you'll break,
your twatling-strings with farting.
What it't you ail? at my command,
step mother tell me true,
Sure such a one in all the land,
before I never knew
The 'Squire cry'd you make us deaf,
wife take another room,
For fear you choke and stop your breath,
with such a strange perfume,
Immediately she went away,
with visage gross and grim;
Swearing that Jack for this should pay,
she'd be revenged on him.
A fryar whom she thought a saint,
came there to lodge that night,
To whom she made a sad complaint,
how Jack had sham'd her quite,
Said she, for sweet St. Francis's sake,
tomorrow in the field,
Thrash him till you his bones do break,
no show of pity yield.
The fryar swore by his bald pate,
he'd make him blind and lame
And not allow him for to prate,
when to the field he came.
Next morning with the early lark,
the little boy arose;
