Monday, February 25, 2008

A Bawdy Song by Choyce Drollery 1656

"The Shepheards Lamentation for His Love,"
by Choyce Drollery

Down lay the Shepheard Swain,
So sober and demure,
Wishing for his wench again,
So bonny and so pure.
With his head on hillock low,
And his arms on kembow;
And all for the losse of her hy nonny nonny no.
His tears fell as thin,
As water from a still,
His haire upon his chin,
Grew like tyme upon a hill.
His cherry cheeks were pale as snow,
Testifying his mickle woe;
And all was for the loss of her hy nonny nonny no.
Sweet she was, as fond of love,
As ever fettered Swain;
Never such a bonny one
Shall I enjoy again.
Sit ten thousand on a row,
Ile forbod that any show
Ever the like of her hy nonny nonny no.
Fac'd she was of Filbard hew, [See John Anderson,
And bosom'd like a Swanne: [My Jo.
Basck'd she was of bended yew
And wasted by a span. [waisted]
Haire she had as black as Crowe,
From the head unto the toe,
Down, down, all over, hy nonny, nonny no.
With her Mantle tuck't up high,
She foddered her Flocke,
So bucksome and alluringly,
Her knee upheld her smock;
So nimbly did she use to goe,
So smooth she danc'd on tip-toe,
That all men were fond of her, hy nonny nonny no.
She simpred like a Holy-day,
And smiled like the Spring,
She pratled like a popinjay,
And like a swallow sing.
She tript it like a barren doe,
And strutted like a Gar-crow:
Which made me so fone of her, hy nonny nonny no.
To trip it on the merry Down,
To dance the lively Hay,
To wrestle for a green Gown
In heat of all the day,
Never would she say me no.
Yet me thought she had though
Never enough of her, hy nonny nonny no.
But gone she is, the blithest Lasse
That ever trod on plain
What ever hath betided her,
Blame not the Shepheard Swain.
For why, she was her own foe,
And gave her selfe the overthrowe,
By being too free of her hy nonny nonny no

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