The Plough-man's Praise:

In A DIALOGUE between a Mother and her Daughter; Which Daughter resolved to forsake a Wealthy 'Squire, and marry Roger, the Ploughman for his Plain-Dealing.

Tune of the Evening Ramble, &c.
DEar Mother I reckon to marry,
I hope you will give your consent:
For as I am told, full Eighteen Years old,
I was in the midst of last Lent.
'Tis time I was marry'd you know,
Three Winters and Summers agoe,
I then did discover the Ioys of a Lover:
When Roger he tickl'd me so,
O! he is as pretty a Fellow I vow,
As ever was train'd up to follow the Plough.
Why Huswife what mean you by Roger,
the passionate Mother reply'd,
A Country Clown, the scorn of the Town,
you may be a Gentleman's Bride:
For, Daughter, i'll make it appear,
That now in fair Somersetshire,
Besides Gold and Treasure, and Wealth out of measure,
My Rents are Two Hundred a Year,
And do you imagine, that I will allow,
My Daughter to marry a Fellow at Plough.
The Plough is a Staff to the Kingdom,
a Pillar and Prop to the Throne:
On every hand it fattens the Land,
with Plenty, 'tis very well known,
For if we had Guinea's untold,
More than a whole Kingdom could hold,
What Man would be quiet without any Diet,
For who ever liv'd upon Gold?
No Creature, dear Mother, and therefore I'll vow,
To marry a Husband that follows the Plough.
But Gold is a beautiful Metal,
this City and Court to adorn,
To satisfie you, a handful or two,
is worth many Bushels of Corn:
The farmers where ever they dwell,
Their Corn they will readily sell,
For Money to any, so sweet is the Penny,
Without it, there's none can live well,
And therefore, dear Daughter, consider this now,
And take not a Fellow that follows the Plough.
I shall have hereafter, dear Mother,
two Hundred a Year, and above,
A plentiful store, I'll covet no more:
but marry the Man that I love;
Tho' in a poor Ierkin he goes,
And Patches, perhaps on his Hose,
Dear Mother pray hear me, when e'er he comes near me,
His Breath is as sweet as a Rose:
If ever I marry, I solemnly vow,
It shall he a Fellow that follows the Plough.
Dear Daughter I strange at your Fancy,
this 'Squire that Courts you, I know,
Will make you his Wife, and love you as Life,
in Iewels and Gemms you may go:
He's wealthy, and handsome, withal,
Both lusty, strait, proper, and tall,
And you'll be attended, and likewise befriended,
Have Servants to come at your Call,
Pray why will you slight such a Happiness now,
And take a poor Fellow that follows the Plough.
A Fig for the Bully young 'Squire,
a Crack he do's constantly keep;
He'll revel and Sport, with Ladies at Court,
while I in my Chamber may weep,
To think of my sad Overthrow:
But Roger will never do so,
He's honest I know it, and cannot foregoe it,
And Mother he loves me I know:
And therefore, it ever I marry, I vow
It shall be with Roger that follows the Plough.
Dear Daughter, if that be the Reason,
thy Wisdom I needs must commend,
A right honest Man will get what he can,
but others will wastfully spend,
And ruine their Families quite,
I think thou art much in the right:
I will not deny thee, let Roger lye by thee,
Since he is thy Ioy and Delight,
And when thou art marry'd, my Love shall be shown;
I'll give him a Farm, and Two Ploughs of his own.

Licensed according to Order.

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball, in Pye-corner.

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