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The fiddlers play’d with glee so keen,
That each pair wish’d they both had been
Like Jockie to the fair, the fair, &c.
The miller’s son the dance began,
He led it stoutly like a man,
Until the morning’s light did dawn,
Their sport was keen and rare.
Then ev’ry lad his lass did turn,
And on the grass he smack’d her mun—,
Odzooks, cry’d Hodge, I like this fun,
And ne’er shall rest till I do run,
With some one to the fair, &c.
But now the sport’s all o’er and still,
And Jenny’s portion is a mill,
Five score of sheep upon the hill,
With such like country fare.
And Jockie’s got a milking cow,
Nine good fat pigs, a grunting sow,
A Dutch built horse to drag the plough,
Or ride whene’er—-as he doth vow,
With Jenny to the fair, the fair, &c.
So Jockie now is link’d for life
And Jenny proves a loving wife,
Within her cot there dwells no strife,
Nor any worldly care.
No jealous fears disturb their rest,
No envious thoughts in either breast,
They never have the least contest,
But strive to please each other best,
