The Low Back’d Car.
When first I saw sweet Peggy,
’Twas on a market day;
A Low Back’d Car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay.
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And deck’d with flowers of spring,
No flowers were there that could compare
With the lovely girl I sing,
As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,
Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,
But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.
In battle’s wild commotion,
The proud and mighty Mars,
With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,
Of death in warlike scars;
But Peggy, peaceful goddess,
Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down in the market-town,
As right and left they fly;
As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,
For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heart
That is hit from the Low Back’d Car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,
Has strings of ducks and geese;
But the scores of hearts she slaughters,
By far outnumber these.
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle-dove,
Well worth the cage, I do engage,
Of the blooming God of Love.
As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,
And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,
As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.
I’d rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
With a lady for my bride.
For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,
With my arm around her waist.
As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,
Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,
As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.