Songs

In Chester town there liv’ d
A brisk young widow,
For beauty and fine clothes
None could excel her,
She was proper stout and tall,
Her fingers long and small,
She’s a comely dame withall,
She’s a brisk young widow.

A lover soon there came,
A brisk young farmer,
With his hat turn’d up all round,
Seeking to gain her.
‘My dear, for love of you
This wide world I’d go through
If you will but prove true
You shall wed a farmer.’

Says she: ‘I’m not for you
Nor no such fellow,
I’m for a lively lad
With lands and riches,
’Tis not your hogs and yowes
Can maintain furbelows,
My silk anti satin clothes
Are all my glory.’

‘O madam, don’t be coy
For all your glory,
For fear of another day
And another story.
If the world on you should frown
Your topknot must come down
To a Lindsey-woolsey gown.
Where is then your glory?’

At last there came that way
A sooty collier,
With his hat bent down all round,
He soon did gain her
Whereat the farmer swore;
‘The widow’s mazed, I’m sure.
I’ll never court no more
A brisk young widow!’