From Sue Prats Son, the fair and witty,
The Lord of Portsmouth, sweet and pretty,
From her that creeps up Holbourne hill,
And Moll that cries, God-dam-me still,
From backwards-ringing of the Bells,
From both the Counters and Bridewells,
From blind Robbin and his Bess,
And from a Purse that’s penniless,
Libera nos Domine.
From gold-finders, and night-weddings,