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O but in came the blackſmith, whoſe trade's worſt of all,
He's pledg'd his bed from under him for whiſky & ale
And he's ta'en up his lodging on the cold floor,
Ad there he must remain till the wars are all o'er.
O but in came the lanlady, ſo meek and ſo fine,
With ruffles at her hands, and thus ſhe did begin,
I have truſted all my ale upon an ill ſcore,
And can't day the maltman till the wars are all o'er.
But in came the devil with a malt-ſack on his back,
At the ending of my ſong, and filling of the pack
And he's carried of the landlady, on an old ſcore,
And ſaid he'd return her when the wars were all o'er.
Farewell to Spring
Farewell to spring, virgins and wives,
Blithe bloom when saffron grows dark,
Our harvest is come, come lads to your reaping,
Your sickles are keen, come lads to your reaping,
Come lasses to glean, plow and sow.
The sun peeps so broad, and the twilight is flown
the dawn of the morning throws of the grey gown
Come lads to your labour, 'tis welcome the day,
Your hearty meal's meat shall your labour reply,
Hodge cross his shoulder from the barn bears a flail,
Whilst Nest crosses the stile, on his head a full pail,
Our cattle well fodder'd, to the cottage let's has e
No other pains take on brown bread make a feast
