‘Sweet Nelly! my heart’s delight!
Be loving, and do not slight
The proffer I make, for modesty’s sake:—
I honour your beauty bright.
For love, I profess, I can do no less,
Thou hast my favour won:
And since I see your modesty,
I pray agree, and fancy me,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
‘No! I am a lady gay,
’Tis very well known I may
Have men of renown, in country or town;
So! Roger, without delay,
Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue,
Their loves will soon be won;
But don’t you dare to speak me fair,
As if I were at my last prayer,
To marry a farmer’s son.’
‘My father has riches’ store,
Two hundred a year, and more;
Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs;
His age is above threescore.
And when he does die, then merrily I
Shall have what he has won;
Both land and kine, all shall be thine,
If thou’lt incline, and wilt be mine,
And marry a farmer’s son.’
‘A fig for your cattle and corn!
Your proffered love I scorn!
’Tis known very well, my name is Nell,
And you’re but a bumpkin born.’
‘Well! since it is so, away I will go,—
And I hope no harm is done;
Farewell, adieu!—I hope to woo
As good as you,—and win her, too,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.’
‘Be not in such haste,’ quoth she,
‘Perhaps we may still agree;
For, man, I protest I was but in jest!
Come, prythee sit down by me;
For thou art the man that verily can
Win me, if e’er I’m won;
Both straight and tall, genteel withal;
Therefore, I shall be at your call,
To marry a farmer’s son.’
‘Dear lady! believe me now
I solemnly swear and vow,
No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives,
Like fellows that drive the plough:
For whatever they gain with labour and pain,
They don’t with ’t to harlots run,
As courtiers do. I never knew
A London beau that could outdo
A country farmer’s son.’
THE FARMER’S BOY.
[Mr. Denham of Piersbridge, who communicates the following, says—‘there is no question that the Farmer’s Boy is a very ancient song; it is highly popular amongst the north country lads and lasses.’ The date of the composition may probably be referred to the commencement of the last century, when there prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage for Farmers’ Sons, Plough Boys, Milk Maids, Farmers’ Boys, &c. &c. The song is popular all over the country, and there are numerous printed copies, ancient and modern.]
The sun had set behind yon hills,
Across yon dreary moor,
Weary and lame, a boy there came
Up to a farmer’s door:
‘Can you tell me if any there be
That will give me employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer’s boy?
‘My father is dead, and mother is left
With five children, great and small;
And what is worse for mother still,
I’m the oldest of them all.
Though little, I’ll work as hard as a Turk,
If you’ll give me employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer’s boy.