I met with the Devil in the shape of a Ram, Then over and over the Sow-gelder came; I rose and halter'd him fast by the Horns, And pick'd out his Stones, as you would pick out Corns; Maa, quoth the Devil, with that out he slunk, And left us a Carkass of Mutton that stunk. I chanc'd to ride forth a Mile and a half, Where I heard he did live in disguise of a Calf; I bound him and Gelt him e'er he did any evil, For he was at the best but a young sucking Devil: Maa, yet he cries, and forth he did steal, And this was sold after for excellent Veal. Some half a Year after in the Form of a Pig, I met with the Rogue, and he look'd very big; I caught at his Leg, laid him down on a Log, E'er a Man could Fart twice, I made him a Hog: Huh, huh quoth the Devil, and gave such a Jerk, That a _Jew_ was Converted and eat of that Pork. In Woman's attire I met him most fine, At first sight I thought him some Angel divine; But viewing his crab Face I fell to my Trade, I made him forswear ever acting a Maid: Meaw, quoth the Devil, and so ran away, Hid himself in a Fryer's old Weeds as they say. I walked along and it was my good chance, To meet with a Black-coat that was in a Trance; I speedily grip'd him and whip'd off his Cods, 'Twixt his Head and his Breech, I left little odds: O, quoth the Devil, and so away ran, Thou oft will be curst by many a Woman. _A_ SONG. [Music] When _Jemmy_ first began to love, He was the finest Swain; That ever yet a Flock had drove, Or Danc'd upon the Plain: 'Twas then that I, woe's me poor heart, My Freedom threw away; And finding sweets in every part, I could not say him nay. For ever when he spake of Love, He wou'd his Eyes decline; Each Sigh he gave a Heart wou'd move, Good faith, and why not mine: He'd press my Hand, and Kiss it oft, His silence spoke his Flame; And whilst he treated me thus soft, I wish'd him more to blame. Sometimes to feed my Flock with his, _Jemmy_ wou'd me invite; Where he the finest Songs would Sing, Me only to Delight: Then all his Graces he display'd, Which were enough I trow; To conquer any Princely Maid, So did he me I trow. But now for _Jemmy_ I must Mourn, He to the Wars must go; His Sheephook to a Sword must turn, Alack what shall I do? His Bagpipes into Warlike sounds, Must now converted be; His Garlands into fearful Wounds, Oh! what becomes of me? _A_ SONG; _to the Tune of_ Woobourn _Fair._ Vol. 4. Pag. 330. Jilting is in such a Fashion, And such a Fame, Runs o'er the Nation, There's never a Dame Of highest Rank, or of Fame, Sir, but will stoop to your Caresses, If you do but put home your Addresses: It's for that she Paints, and she Patches, All she hopes to secure is her Name, Sir.