Peace, peace, my good Lord _Boles_, And of your Speeches set them by; If there be Eleven _Grimes_ all of a Name, Then by my own Honour they all should dye. Then came down my good Lady _Ward_, Falling low upon her Knee; Five hundred Measures of Gold I'll give, And grant Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_ to me. Peace, peace, my good Lady _Ward_, None of your proffers shall him buy, For if there be Twelve _Grimes_ all of a Name, By my own Honour all should dye. Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime's_ condemn'd to dye, And of his Friends he had no lack; Fourteen Foot he leapt in his Ward, His Hands bound fast upon his Back. Then he look'd over his left Shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; There was he aware of his Father dear, Came tearing his Hair most pitifully. Peace, peace, my Father dear, And of your Speeches set them by; Tho' they have bereav'd me of my Life, They cannot bereave me of Heaven so high. He look'd over his right Shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; There was he aware of his Mother dear, Came tearing her Hair most pitifully. Pray have me remember'd to _Peggy_ my Wife, As she and I walk'd over the Moor; She was the cause of the loss of my Life, And with the old Bishop she play'd the Whore. Here _Johnny Armstrong_, take thou my Sword; That is made of the metal so fine; And when thou com'st to the Border side, Remember the Death of Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_. _The disappointed_ TAYLOR: _Or good Work done for Nothing._ [Music] A Taylor good Lord, in the Time of Vacation, When Cabbage was scarce and when Pocket was low, For the Sale of good Liquor pretended a Passion, To one that sold Ale in a Cuckoldy Row: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a Stitch, And sing Cucumber, Cucumber ho. One Day she came up, when at Work in his Garret, To tell what he Ow'd, that his Store he might know; Says he it is all very right I declare it, Says she then I hope you will pay e'er I go? Now a Louse, _&c._ Says Prick-Louse my Jewel, I love you most dearly, My Breast every Minute still hotter does grow, I'll only says she for the Juice of my Barly, And other good Drink in my Cellar below: Now a Louse made him Itch, Here a Scratch, there a Stitch, And sing Cucumber, Cucumber ho. Says he you mistake, 'tis for something that's better, Which I dare not Name, and you care not to show; Says she I'm afraid you are given to flatter, What is it you Mean, and pray where does it grow: Now a Louse, _&c._ Says he 'tis a Thing that has never a handle, 'Tis hid in the Dark, and it lies pretty low; Says she then I fear that you must have a Candle, Or else the wrong way you may happen to go: Now a Louse, _&c._