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EBBA 21811

Magdalene College - Pepys
Ballad XSLT Template
A Baker and his Wife, living near Lambath Mash,
in Lambeth Parish, in the County of Surry: Being a new
Song by the old Tune of, Hey Boys up go we.
Licens'd and Enter'd according to Order.

WHere have you been, you drunken Dog,
where have you been to day?
For every fault you do commit,
you shall severely pay:
I'll tear your throat, i ll hang your bones,
that you shall quickly see,
Before that ever you shall play,
at hey Boys up go we.

My dearest dear, the Breeches take,
for all I have is thine;
Go out among thy Gossips love,
drink Beer, or Ale, or Wine,
Hot Potts or any thing you please,
so I may quiet be;
And come and let us play in Bed,
at hey Boys up go we.

A curse upon your plaguey Face,
I wish that thou were dead;
Nay, if thou live assuredly,
I will cornute thy Head:
You drunken Dog when you are out,
if you'll not better be;
With another I will have about
at hey Boys up go we.

Upon my bended knees my Dear,
thy Pardon I do beg;
I never will forsake thy Bed,
While I can lift a Legg;
My Love, it was, the Taylor's fault,
it's he hath ruin'd me;
Come my dear Love let's have a game,
[a]t hey Boys up go we.

You Dog I'll stamp upon your Gutts,
I'll end your wretched Life;
Was ever Churl so bad as thee,
unto so good a Wife:
Now it is time to praise myself
none else will do it I see;
You Rogue you shall not have one bit,
of hey Boys up go we.

Dear Love, be but reconcil'd,
this once my Love to mee;
And I will never more offend,
to such a high degree;
The Taylor's company I'll leave,
for he has ruin'd me:
Come Love let's have a little touch,
at hey Boys up go we.

Thou toothless Fool, thou Drunken Sot,
thou foolish silly Ass;
I'll drive thee in the Fields to feed,
with Bulls that live on Grass;
Go fumble like a fumbling Fool,
go get thee gone from me,
For thou shalt not so much as feel,
my hey Boys up go we.

O wretched Man! What shall I do?
where shall I hide my Head?
I am a weary of my Life,
I wish that I was Dead;
See how the Tears do trickle down,
behold dear Wife and see,
How I am in a piteous Case,
for hey Boys up go we.

Well, if you'll promise to be good,
and will the Dishes wash,
And mind to feed the Poultery
this fault I by will pass:
My little, silly, pritty, Cock,
be thou but rul'd by me,
And I'll give thee thy Belly full,
of hey Boys up go we.

By thy Smock-tail I'll swear my Love,
I n'er will do amiss,
And to confirm the same, my Dear,
the Book I'll freely kiss;
All Company I will forsake,
and go to Bed with thee,
Where I will please my love,
with hey Boys up go we.

Printed for J.S. in the Strand.

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