WHen I was a Maiden at Fourteen Years old, If I romp'd with a Man how my Mother would Scold, But now I am grown older she bids me by shy, And is a ways a Chiding with Fy my dear Fy Fy my dear Fy, and is always a Chiaing with Fy my dear Fy.
But this her fond Chiding, how e'er so absurd, By frequent repeating became a Cant Word, That if a young Man did but Smiling pass by, I could not help crying out, fy my Dear fy.
One Evening as under a Hay Cock I lay, Young Damon my Lover by Chance came that Way; He kneel'd and he Kiss'd me, and down he would lie, Altho' I kept calling out, fy my Dear fy.
In Loves fondest Language he then did repeats That I was the sweetest, the wisest and best, And that by my Coyness be surely should die, Which forc'd me again to say, fy my Dear fy.
With twenty sweet Kisses he sealed each Vow, And ardently beg'd me some Pity to shew; Then wonder'd which Way I my Garter did tye, L- bless me, cried I, oh! fy my Dear fy.
But still he keep pressing and talk'd of such Truth, Of Flames and of Darts, and of Beauty and Youth, That he'd ever be constant it I would comply. But I threaten'd and chided, with, fy my Dear fy.
Yer Damon still struggled petition'd and pray'd And never once minded a Word that I said, So I let him go on and made no Reply, For I found 'twas in vain to say, fy my Dear fy
