A bonny Lass in a Country Town, Unto her Commendation; She scorns a _Holland_ Smock, Made after the old Fashion: But she will have it _Holland_ fine, As fine as may be wore; Hem'd and stitch'd with _Naples_ Silk, And button'd down before: But is not, _&c._ Our Gallants of the City, New Fashions do devise; And wear such new found fangle things, Which country Folk despise: As for the Button'd Smock, None can hold it in scorn; Nor none can think the Fashion ill, It is so closely worn: Although it may be felt, It's seldom to be seen; It passeth all the Fashions yet, That heretofore hath been. But is not, _&c._ Our Wenches of the City, That gains the Silver rare; Sometimes they wear a Canvass Smock, That's torn or worn Thread-bare: Perhaps a Smock of Lockrum, That dirty, foul, or black: Or else a Smock of Canvass course, As hard as any Sack. But is not, _&c._ But she that wears the _Holland_ Smock, I commend her still that did it; To wear her under Parts so fine, The more 'tis for her Credit: For some will have the out-side fine, To make the braver show; But she will have her _Holland_ Smock That's Button'd down below. But is not, _&c._ But if that I should take in hand, Her Person to commend; I should vouchsafe a long Discourse, The which I could not end: For her Vertues they are many, Her person likewise such; But only in particular, Some part of them I'll touch. But is not, _&c._ Those Fools that still are doing, With none but costly Dames; With tediousness of wooing, Makes cold their hottest flames: Give me the Country Lass, That trips it o'er the Field; And ope's her Forest at the first. And is not Coy to yield. Who when she dons her Vesture, She makes the Spring her Glass; And with her Comely gesture, Doth all the Meadows pass: Who knows no other cunning, But when she feels it come; To gripe your Back, if you be slack, And thrust your Weapon home. 'Tis not their boasting humour, Their painted looks nor state; Nor smells of the Perfumer, The Creature doth create: Shall make me unto these, Such slavish service owe; Give me the Wench that freely takes, And freely doth bestow. Who far from all beguiling, Doth not her Beauty Mask; But all the while lye smiling, While you are at your task: Who in the midst of Pleasure, Will beyond active strain; And for your Pranks, will con you thanks, And cursey for your pain. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ ACKEROYD.