Buxom Joan of Lymas's Love to a jolly Sailer: OR, The Maiden's Choice: Being LOVE for LOVE again.
To an excellent new Play-house Tune.
[...]
A Soldier and a Sailer, A Tinker and a Tailer,
Had once a doubtful strife, Sir
To make a Maid a Wife, Sir,
Whose name was buxome Joan.
Whose name was buxome Joan,
For now the time was ended,
When she no more intended
To lick her lips at Men, Sir,
and gnaw the sheets in vain, Sir,
And lye o'nights alone,
And lye o'nights alone.
The Soldier swore like thunder,
He lov'd her more than plunder;
And shew'd her many a scar, Sir,
Which he had brought from far, Sir,
With fighting for her sake.
With fighting, &c.
The Tailor thought to please her,
With off'ring her his Measure:
The Tinker too with mettle,
Said he could mend her kettle,
And stop up e'ry leak.
And stop, &c.
But while those three were prating,
The Sailer slyly waiting;
Thought if it came about, Sir,
That they should all fall out, Sir,
He then might play his part.
He then, &c.
And just e'en as he meant, Sir,
To Logger-heads they went, Sir,
And then he let fly at her,
A shot 'twixt wind and water,
Which won this fair Maid's heart.
Which won, &c.
The Souldier being frustrate,
Like Boreas lowdly bluster'd,
And wou'd have satisfaction,
For such a treach'rous action,
Done by the cunning Tar,
Done by, &c.
But he aboard his Pinace,
Ne'er fear'd the Bully's menace,
But lustily he ply'd, Sir,
Against both wind and tide, Sir,
Like any Man of War,
Like any, &c.
The Tailer holdly vows too,
He'll serve him like a Louse too,
And with his bloody shears, Sir,
Will out off both his ears, Sir,
For stealing of his Love,
For stealing, &c.
But he his end had compast,
And laugh'd at Bodkin's bombast;
Still pointing right his needle,
He launch'd into the middle;
She tost and heav'd; he drove,
She tost, &c.
Then, next, the Man of mettle
Began to beat his Kettle,
And swore, that (with a pox) he
Would thump him and his doxy,
If ever he came near,
If ever, &c.
But still the merry Sailer,
Defy'd Buff, Brass, and Tailer,
Whilst, in his jolly mood, her
He manag'd with his rudder,
And right his course did stear,
And right, &c.
LONDON: Printed for P▪ Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball, in Pye-corner.