Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England

Ballads, English -- England -- Texts; Songs, English -- England -- Texts

If any think that I
         Do practise flattery,
   In seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaids’ praise,
         I’ll to them thus reply:—
   It is their desert inviteth my art,
         To study this pleasant tale;
   In their defence, whose innocence,
   And providence, gets honest pence
         Out of the milking-pail.



THE MILKING-PAIL.


[THE following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one
most commonly sung.]

         YE nymphs and sylvan gods,
         That love green fields and woods,
   When spring newly-born herself does adorn,
         With flowers and blooming buds:
   Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,
         On yonder pleasant vale,
   Of those that choose to milk their ewes,
   And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
         To carry the milking-pail.

         You goddess of the morn,
         With blushes you adorn,
   And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare
         A concert on each green thorn;
   The blackbird and thrush on every bush,
         And the charming nightingale,
   In merry vein, their throats do strain
   To entertain, the jolly train
         Of those of the milking-pail.

         When cold bleak winds do roar,
         And flowers will spring no more,
   The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,
         With winter all candied o’er,
   See now the town lass, with her white face,
         And her lips so deadly pale;
   But it is not so, with those that go
   Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,
         And carry the milking-pail.

         The country lad is free
         From fears and jealousy,
   Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,
         With his lass upon his knee.
   With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
         And swears her charms won’t fail;
   But the London lass, in every place,
   With brazen face, despises the grace
         Of those of the milking-pail.



THE SUMMER’S MORNING.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

General

Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England

Ballads, English -- England -- Texts; Songs, English -- England -- Texts

If any think that I
         Do practise flattery,
   In seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaids’ praise,
         I’ll to them thus reply:—
   It is their desert inviteth my art,
         To study this pleasant tale;
   In their defence, whose innocence,
   And providence, gets honest pence
         Out of the milking-pail.



THE MILKING-PAIL.


[THE following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one
most commonly sung.]

         YE nymphs and sylvan gods,
         That love green fields and woods,
   When spring newly-born herself does adorn,
         With flowers and blooming buds:
   Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,
         On yonder pleasant vale,
   Of those that choose to milk their ewes,
   And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
         To carry the milking-pail.

         You goddess of the morn,
         With blushes you adorn,
   And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare
         A concert on each green thorn;
   The blackbird and thrush on every bush,
         And the charming nightingale,
   In merry vein, their throats do strain
   To entertain, the jolly train
         Of those of the milking-pail.

         When cold bleak winds do roar,
         And flowers will spring no more,
   The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,
         With winter all candied o’er,
   See now the town lass, with her white face,
         And her lips so deadly pale;
   But it is not so, with those that go
   Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,
         And carry the milking-pail.

         The country lad is free
         From fears and jealousy,
   Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,
         With his lass upon his knee.
   With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
         And swears her charms won’t fail;
   But the London lass, in every place,
   With brazen face, despises the grace
         Of those of the milking-pail.



THE SUMMER’S MORNING.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England

Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England

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