  How a Brick-maker at Felton stole a Woman away by her own Consent, from her Grandmother. To the Tune of, Maggy Lauder. There lives a lass in Felton town, Her name is Jenny Gowen, With the Brick-man she has play’d the lown, So wanton she is grown: The reason why some love the night, Incognito to revel, Is they love darkness more than light, Because their deeds are evil. So late at night on Saturday, He thought all safe as brandy, He rigg’d and trigg’d, and rid away Upon John Hinks’s Sandy: To Haggerston he did pretend, Some sweetheart there confin’d him; But he took up, at our town-end, His cloak-bag on behind him. Like as the bird that gay would be, As fable hath reported, From each fine bird most cunningly A feather she extorted: Then boasting said, How fine I’m grown! Her painted plumes she shaked, At which each bird pluck’d off their own, And left her almost naked. With this kind maid it proved so, Who many things did borrow, To rig her up from top to toe, And deck her like queen Flora. Of one she got a black-silk hood, Her fond light head to cover, Likewise a blue cloak, very good, Her night intrigues to smother. Clock stockings she must have (dear wot) In borrow’d shoes she’s kilted, Some lent her a blue petticoat, Both large and bravely quilted. Of some she got a fine linn-smock, Lest Peter shou’d grow canty, And have a stroke at her black joke, With a tante, rante, tante. With borrow’d cane, hat on her head, To make her still look greater, She’d make her friends believe indeed, They were all bought by Peter: But when she did return again, In all her boasted grandeur, Each to their own did lay just claim, And left her as they fand her. But none can guess at their intent, Why they abroad did swagger, Some said, to see their friends they went, Some said, to Buckle Beggar. Away full four days they stay’d, I think they took their leisure; They past for man and wife, some said, And spent the nights in pleasure. When the Black Cock did Sandy see, There was a joyful meeting, That night when I thee lent, quoth he, I wish I had been sleeping: Thou art abused very sore, As any creature can be, And still he cry’d, o’er and o’er, O woe is me for Sandy! Then Sandy, mumbling, made reply, You were my loving master, I never did your suit deny, Nor meet with one disaster, Till now unknown to yourself, That I should have this trouble, Or else for neither love nor pelf, You’d let me carry double. Poor Sandy was with riding daul’d, He rues he saw their faces, His back and sides they sorely gaul’d, He pay’d for their embraces; But if young Peter’s found her nest, She’ll rue as well as Sandy; And if she proves with child, she best Had tarry’d with her grandy. How they abused the horse they rid on, and when he married, they went off in several people’s debts. |
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