The Farmer’s Son
[THIS song, familiar to the dwellers in the dales of Yorkshire, was published in 1729, in the Vocal Miscellany; a collection of about four hundred celebrated songs. As the Miscellany was merely an anthology of songs already well known, the date of this song must have been sometime anterior to 1729. It was republished in the British Musical Miscellany, or the Delightful Grove, 1796, and in a few other old song books. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter dialogue preserved in the Roxburgh collection, called A Mad Kinde of Wooing; or, a Dialogue between Will the Simple and Nan the Subtill, with their loving argument. To the tune of the New Dance at the Red Bull Playhouse. Printed by the assignees of Thomas Symcock.]
‘SWEET Nelly! my heart’s delight!Be loving, and do not slightThe proffer I make, for modesty’s sake:—I honour your beauty bright.For love, I profess, I can do no less,Thou hast my favour won:And since I see your modesty,I pray agree, and fancy me,Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
‘No! I am a lady gay,’Tis very well known I mayHave men of renown, in country or town;So! Roger, without delay,Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue,Their loves will soon be won;But don’t you dare to speak me fair,As if I were at my last prayer,To marry a farmer’s son.’
‘My father has riches’ store,Two hundred a year, and more;Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs;His age is above threescore.And when he does die, then merrily IShall have what he has won;Both land and kine, all shall be thine,If thou’lt incline, and wilt be mine,And marry a farmer’s son.’
‘A fig for your cattle and corn!Your proffered love I scorn!’Tis known very well, my name is Nell,And you’re but a bumpkin born.’‘Well! since it is so, away I will go,—And I hope no harm is done;Farewell, adieu!—I hope to wooAs good as you,—and win her, too,Though I’m but a farmer’s son.’
‘Be not in such haste,’ quoth she,‘Perhaps we may still agree;For, man, I protest I was but in jest!Come, prythee sit down by me;For thou art the man that verily canWin me, if e’er I’m won;Both straight and tall, genteel withal;Therefore, I shall be at your call,To marry a farmer’s son.’
‘Dear lady! believe me nowI solemnly swear and vow,No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives,Like fellows that drive the plough:For whatever they gain with labour and pain,They don’t with ’t to harlots run,As courtiers do. I never knewA London beau that could outdoA country farmer’s son.’