[2] The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favorite humorous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, which too frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again.--THE AUTHOR.
There was (not certaine when) a certaine preacher, That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who having read in Latine thus a text Of _erat quidam homo_, much perplext, He seemed the same with studie great to scan, In English thus, _There was a certaine man_. But now (quoth he), good people, note you this, He saith there was, he doth not say there is; For in these daies of ours it is most plaine Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certaine; Yet by my text you see it comes to passe That surely once a certaine man there was: But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can finde this text, _There was a certaine woman_.
They're always abusing the women, As a terrible plague to men: They say we're the root of all evil, And repeat it again and again; Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, All mischief, be what it may! And pray, then, why do you marry us, If we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home, And are never easy a moment If ever we chance to roam? When you ought to be thanking heaven That your Plague is out of the way, You all keep fussing and fretting-- "Where is _my_ Plague to-day?" If a Plague peeps out of the window, Up go the eyes of men; If she hides, then they all keep staring Until she looks out again.
From the Greek of ARISTOPHANES. Translation of WILLIAM COLLINS.
Which way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say! 'Tis sure a famous city: It must have cradled, in its day, Full many a maid of noble clay, And matrons wise and witty; And if ever marriage should happen to me, A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.
King Conrad once, historians say, Fell out with this good city; So down he came, one luckless day,-- Horse, foot, dragoons,--in stern array,-- And cannon,--more's the pity! Around the walls the artillery roared, And bursting bombs their fury poured.