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A NEW BALLAD, entitled and call'd The TIMES.

The maids of the village rise soon in the morning,
Rise soon in the morning,
Rise soon in the morning.
The maids of the village rise soon in the morning,
And merrily sit to spin, Sir.
The ladies in London themselves are adorning,
Themselves are adorning,
Themselves are adorning.
The ladies in London themselves are adorning,
And thinking of no such thing, Sir.
The maids of the village are true to their lovers,
Are true to their lovers,
Are true to their lovers.
The maids of the village are true to their lovers,
They never chuse but one, Sir.
The ladies in London are terrible rovers,
Are terrible rovers,
Are terrible rovers,
The ladies in London are terrible rovers,
Their changing is never done, Sir.
The Lads of the village, their wives are their own, Sir,
Their wives are their own, Sir,
Their wives are their own, Sir,
The Lads of the village, their wives are their own, Sir,
They chuse but one alone, Sir.
The husbands in London, whip Jack and are gone, Sir,
Whip Jack and are gone, Sir,
Whip Jack and are gone, Sir.
The husbands in London, Whip Jack and are gone, Sir,
To every man's wife but—their own, Sir.
no previous section A new ballad entitled and call'd The Times
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