A New BALLAD Of an Amorous Coachman, Who was so difficult in pleasing his Love-sick Fancy; that after his several Addresses to the Female Sex, he was at last Married: which made him cry out,
Alass! my Humour is so hard to please,
That I find Love, not Love, but a Disease;
Yes a Disease that rages in my Heart,
And wounds my Amorous Soul in ev'ry part:
I love and loath and both within an hour,
So soon my Loathing Loving do's devour.
To the Tune of, There was a brisk Lass.
I Went to the Fair to pick out a Wife,
That might be a comfort to my svveet Life:
On pretty black Nanny I cast a Sheeps eye,
And told her for Love, I believ'd I shou'd dye;
I kist her a little and thought that her breath
Had poysoned me so that I looked for Death,
She [...]ink as she stood, like Carrion I'le swear
So I found that I'de got the wrong Sow by the Eat.
To Jenney they wisht me, indeed she was fair
But a pox on he Carrots, I lik'd not red hair,
Her skin I did lov [...], but her hair I did hate,
I ne'r in my Life cou [...]d love Carrot-pate:
She told me of combs [...]alter the hue
But I'faith I thought the were like True blew;
And therefore in hast I had [...] adieu,
And nimbly I tript to vvanton Sue.
Kind Sue quoth I, I'me come to Wooe,
Love perches methinks upon thy brow,
In troth cry'd she, if thou meanest to be mine
A pair of good Horns shall perch on thine
This nettl'd me so that I ran away,
True words spoke in jest we often do say:
With head and with heart both brimful of pain
Away I did scamper to Mrs. Jane.
She seem'd very coy, it pleas'd me the more,
I lik'd her much better than all before;
In the Room was a bed to work we went
And hardly ten minutes of time was spent,
Before I perceiv'd her Iewel was lost,
And thus my fond hopes and purpose were crost:
I thought it high-time, the Coachman was fled
Perceiving the want of her Maiden head.
The Second Part,
to the same Tune.
Then Mary and I walkt cut to take Air,
She had a fine skin and delicate hair,
I thought my self blest by the Pow'rs above,
For troth I was smitten and much in Love:
But she was cross and as peevish a Whore,
As any old Iade can be at threescore;
She thwarted me still in whatever I said,
And then I drove on to a nasty Iade.
Her name was Rebecca, in holy-day Clothes
She was smug, and far sweeter than Munday-Rose
When they were lock'd up she-look'd as black
As the Mourning Suit on my Masters back;
I fancy the Sow and Pigs she trac'd,
For up to the knee her coat was lac'd,
Her Smock was as black as the Hood she wdre,
I bad her be gone for a nasty whore.
To Deborah then in hast I ran,
Her skin was as smooth as Feathers of Swan,
I told her I lov'd her, and canted with Zeal
And try'd by Religion her Pulse to feel:
But say what I would, she answer'd me nay,
Thought I, I shall not be marry'd to day:
She sigh'd and she whin'd when I askt her to marry
She often would cry, good Coachman tarry.
Then I sneakt off, and to Dolly I went,
In whom I expected to find content:
But Dolly was damnable proud and high
To the Coach-box before me, she needs would fly;
I took up my Whip and I gave her a lick
She said she abhorr'd me for that trick:
And now the poor Coachman must lye all alone,
For he's envy'd by some, and pittied by none.
But stay, last of all his Fortunes to mend,
To Dorcas the Coach-man was wish'd by a Friend
Who said she would make him amends for the loss
Of all his old Sweethearts, for she was not cross;
So the Coachman was married he thought to content,
But he ever since do's live to repent,
His Wife had some faults, which I'le tell you in brief
She was a Pick-pockit, a Whore & a Thief.
Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pye-corner.