Till on the ground she cou’d not walk, she was a weary ‘wight.’
Is there ne’er a boy in this town who’ll win hose and shun,
That will run to fair Pudlington, and bid my mother come?
Up then spake a little boy, near unto [her] a-kin,
Full oft I have your errands gone, but now I will it run.
Then she call’d her waiting-maid to bring up bread and wine:
Eat and drink, thou bonny boy, thou’ll ne’er eat more of mine:
Give my respects to my mother, as [she] ‘sits’ in her chair of stone,
And ask her how she likes the news of seven to have but one.
Give my love to my brother William, Ralph, and John;