Absurdities in prose and verse. Written and Illustrated By A. Crowquill [i.e. C. R. Forrester] |
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Ye BAR MAYDE OF Ye OLDE BLUE BOARE.
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 | Absurdities |  |
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Ye BAR MAYDE OF Ye OLDE BLUE BOARE.
AN ANCIENT BALLANT.
1
Ye spruce and spunkie revellers of high or lowe degree,Quick mix your ponche, compose your mugs, and listen unto me:—
A merrie tale I wis it be—a tale that hath no peers,
Soe let ye young be younkers still, ye elders lend their ears!
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2
One Rosabelle, a Bar-Mayde, was (a virgin fayre to view)Eke at ye Blue Boare Senior; where cunninglie she drewe
Ye stout and hale—choice spirits too—from everie part about,
And wits run in to joke and drink, and let their wits run out!
3
Of womankinde ye fayrest she—yet cruell of her kinde,And seem'd (tho' all eyes look'd for her) to all perfection blinde;
Her prayses loude in rhymes were sung by all her loving slaves,
But she made them all a laughing stock—a butt of all their staves!
4
Quoth one, (a wittie varlet he, and smilinglie he spoke,For well loved he to crack his nuts, his bottle, and his joke)
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“Yet I will prove, my bonnie lass, they nothing but Miss-call thee.
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“For tho' they make their love a fish, in hopes more soon to net her,“That sure might find some other name, that eke might suit her better;
“Now I (for thou art passing fair) white-bait would thee appell,
“Or hinting at thy station, lass, would call thee a—Bar-belle!
6
“Or, setting downe to write thy prayse, to win a crowne of myrtell,“Would name thee (for thy gentlenesse) my pretty little turtle.”
“Aye, soe the rich old miser calls me,” quick replied ye belle,
“But he'll never have his turtle, 'till his turtle's in a shell.”
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7
Now there was one (a likelie youth) who'd follow'd her for long,She tryed his patience and his love, and mark'd him from the thronge;
Quoth she: “For me he's waited long, and loves me tho' no prater,
“A bar-mayde needs must marry well who marries a good waiter.
8
Now when ye mayde was made a wyfe, it chanc'd upon a daye,That self same wittie varlet came to chat an hour away:—
“A pot of beere, my pretty mayde,” cried he, with merrie air,
“And let it be as mild as thee, and have a head as fayre!”
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Quoth Rosabelle, all smilinglie: “Dear Sir, I am a wyfe!”“A wyfe!” cried he, in wide amaze—“Then farewell to this lyfe—
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“My heart is broke—I faint!—I die! soe quick, and bring my beere.”
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