Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/353
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The Tinker's Song.
From a collection of the date of 1667. Reprinted in Mr. Mackay's interesting anthology of the songs and ballads of the London 'Prentices.
Have you any work for a tinker, mistress?
Old brass, old pots, or kettles?
I'll mend them all with a tink, merry tink,
And never hurt your metals;
First let me have but a touch of your ale,
'Twill steel me 'gainst cold weather,
Or tinkers' frees,
Or vintners' lees,
Or tobacco, chuse you whether.
But of your ale,
Your nappy ale,
I would I had a firkin,
For I am old,
And very cold,
And never wear a jerkin.
Old brass, old pots, or kettles?
I'll mend them all with a tink, merry tink,
And never hurt your metals;
First let me have but a touch of your ale,
'Twill steel me 'gainst cold weather,
Or tinkers' frees,
Or vintners' lees,
Or tobacco, chuse you whether.
But of your ale,
Your nappy ale,
I would I had a firkin,
For I am old,
And very cold,
And never wear a jerkin.
Come to the May-Pole.
This song first appeared in "Westminster Drollery; a choice collection of the newest songs and poems. London, 1672." It has long been a great favourite with the rustic population of England, and the words of it are said to be still sold in Seven Dials.
Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads,
And away to the May-pole hie,
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddler's standing by.
For Willie shall dance with Jane,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
Trip it up and down.
And away to the May-pole hie,
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddler's standing by.
For Willie shall dance with Jane,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
Trip it up and down.
"Strike up," says Wat—"Agreed," says Matt,
"And I prithee, fiddler, play
"Content," says Hodge, and so says Madge,
For this is a holiday.
Then every lad did doff
His hat unto his lass,
And every girl did curtsey, curtsey,
Curtsey on the grass.
"And I prithee, fiddler, play
"Content," says Hodge, and so says Madge,
For this is a holiday.
Then every lad did doff
His hat unto his lass,
And every girl did curtsey, curtsey,
Curtsey on the grass.