The Cunning Northern Beggar.

Who all the by-standers doth earnestly pray
To bestow a penny upon him to-day.

To the Tune of Tom of Bedlam.

I am a lusty beggar,
And live by others giving!
I scorn to work,
But by the highway lurk,
And beg to get my living:
I’ll i’ the wind and weather,
And wear all ragged garments;
Yet, though I’m bare,
I’m free from care,—
A fig for high preferments!
Therefore I’ll cry, &c.
****
My flesh I can so temper
That it shall seem to fester,
And look all o’er
Like a raw sore,
Whereon I stick a plaister.
With blood I daub my face then,
To feign the falling sickness,
That in every place
They pity my case,
As if it came through weakness.
Therefore I’ll cry, &c.
****
No tricks at all shall escape me,
But I will by my maunding,
Get some relief
To ease my grief
When by the highway standing:
’Tis better be a Beggar,
And ask of kind good fellows,
And honestly have
What we do crave,
Than steal and go to the gallows.
Therefore I’ll cry, “Good your worship, good sir,
Bestow one poor denier, sir,
Which, when I’ve got,
At the Pipe and Pot
I soon will it cashier, sir.”
Finis.
Printed at London for F. Coules.

The following ballad was published in “Playford’s Select Ayres,” 1659, p. 95; with music by Dr. John Wilson, and Musical Companion, 1673. It is in the Percy Folio MS., iii., 308-11. Also in “Windsor Drollery,” 2; and “Le Prince d’Amour,” 1660, p. 177. It is attributed to Shakespeare, but with only manuscript evidence.

“The Song of the Pedlars.

“From the fair Lavinian shore,
I your markets come to store.
Muse not though so far I dwell
And my wares come here to sell:
Such is the insatiate thirst after gold,
Then come to my pack
While I cry, what d’ye lack,
What d’ye buy? for here it is to be sold.

“Courteous Sir, I’ve wares for you,
Garters red and stockings blue,
Dainty gaudes for Sunday gear,
Beads and laces for your dear,
First let me have but a touch of your gold
Then come—Not a swain,
Half so neat,
On the plain
Shall we meet
So comely to behold.
“Madam, come, here you may find
Rings with posies to your mind,
Silken bands for true-love-knot,
And complexion I have got.
First let me have but a touch of your gold,
Then come—To your face,
I’ll restore
Every grace
Though you’re more
Than three score and ten years old.
“Gentles all, now fare you well,
I must trudge my wares to sell;
Lads so blythe and Dames so young,
Drop a guerdon for my song.
Just let me have but a touch of your gold,
I’ll come with my pack
Again to cry,
What d’ye lack,
What d’ye buy?
For here it is to be sold.”