So, gossip, let us found a line
On mouton, porke and beefe;
The which in coming years shall shine
In cultures world as chief.
Sic stout and braw a sone as mine
I lay youle never see,
and theres nae huskier wench than thine—
Saye, neighbor, shall it bee?
On pages 123 and 124 of the folio Field discovered "this ballad of Chicago's patient Grissel (erroneously pronounced 'Gristle' in leading western circles), setting forth the miseries and the fate of a lass who loved a sailor ":
THE LOST SCHOONER