Her breast is as white as a swan,
She is a blyth lass and a merry,
And her middle is fit for a man.
The lads are so fond to be at her,
They all run as mad as March hares,
This bonny young lass they do flatter,
And fall at her feet to their prayers:
You never saw keener or stouter,
They’ll not be put off with delay,
Like bull-dogs they still hang about her,