The ploughman he comes home at night, When he is wet and weary, Puts off the wet, puts on the dry, And goes to bed my deary.
I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, I will wash them clean, O; I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, And dry them on the green, O.
The ploughman he comes home fu’ late, When he wi’ wark is weary; Dights off his shirt that is se wet; And supper makes him cheery.
I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, I will wash them white, O; I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, And dry them on the dyke, O.
Sweet thro’ the forest, Coquet flows, And sweet the flowers its banks adorn; But sweetest far appears my _Rose_, She’s sure the rose without a thorn.
Heard you the lilting, At our kye milking, Heard you the lilting yesterday; Heard you the lilting, At our kye milking; The flower of the forest is stolen away.
Tho’ Meadowfield[62] may boast its sweets, And meadow sweets its fields adorn; United, all its scents me greets, Present my _Rose_ without a thorn. Heard you the lilting, &c.
Tho’ Flotterton[63] may boast its maids, And on Twelfth Eve all others scorn: I envy not their lusty blades, Present my _Rose_ without a thorn. Heard you the lilting, &c.
Tho’ at kye milking, maidens sing, The forest’s flower is awa’; I dinna heed, gae tak’ their fling, For troth she’s stown awa’ wi’ me. Heard you the lilting, &c.
[63] Maids’ Feast of Flotterton is on Twelfth Even.
At Christmas, when the wind blew cauld, And frost and snaw’s o’er ilka dale, Robin of Norham lost his way, And at Capheaton thus did quail:--
O whether this is lairdly ha’, Or poor man’s shield, O let me in; I’m a poor Piper lost my way, Unsneck your door and let me in.
O pity take, and dinna scorn, Heffell[64] and I will die e’er morn; I’ll screw my pipes and heartsome play, And with a sang I’ll weel repay.
“When cockle shells and silver bells, And bawds and whores do churches build, When younkers cease to rant and drink, And usurers tell their gold in field.
“When old Sir Humphery[65] rides to Rome, And preaches in his best array: When indigo dies red and brown, Your honor shall be paid your hay.”
“When Nether Witton is waterless, And Capheaton without a whin; Shafto Crag all turn’d to peat and moss, And cannot bear a foot aboon.