The Milking-Pail
[THE following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one most commonly sung.]
YE nymphs and sylvan gods,That love green fields and woods,When spring newly-born herself does adorn,With flowers and blooming buds:Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,On yonder pleasant vale,Of those that choose to milk their ewes,And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,To carry the milking-pail.
You goddess of the morn,With blushes you adorn,And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepareA concert on each green thorn;The blackbird and thrush on every bush,And the charming nightingale,In merry vein, their throats do strainTo entertain, the jolly trainOf those of the milking-pail.
When cold bleak winds do roar,And flowers will spring no more,The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,With winter all candied o’er,See now the town lass, with her white face,And her lips so deadly pale;But it is not so, with those that goThrough frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,And carry the milking-pail.
The country lad is freeFrom fears and jealousy,Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,With his lass upon his knee.With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,And swears her charms won’t fail;But the London lass, in every place,With brazen face, despises the graceOf those of the milking-pail.