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[Music ]
LOrd! what's come to my Mother,
That every Day more than other,
My true Age she would smother,
And says I'm not in my Teens;
Tho' my Sampler I've sown too,
My Bib and my Apron out-grown too,
Baby quite away thrown too,
I wonder what 'tis she means;
When our John does squeeze my Hand,
And calls me sugar sweet,
My Breath almost fails me,
I know not what ails me,
My Heart does so heave and so beat.
I have heard of Desires,
From Girls that have just been of my Years,
Love compar'd to sweet Bryers,
That hurts, and yet does please:
Is Love finer than Money,
Or can it be sweeter than Honey,
I'm poor Girl such a Toney,
Evads that I cannot guess,
But I'm sure I'll watch more near,
There's something that Truth will shew,
For if Love be a Blessing,
To please beyond Kissing,
Our Jane and our Butler does know.
