A Pathetic Ballad

John Day he was the biggest manOf all the coachman kind,With back too broad to be conceivedBy any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight,When he was in the rear,And wished his box a Christmas box,To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love,What armor can avail?Soon Cupid sent an arrow throughHis scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,From whom he never ranged,For though he changed his horses there,His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,So fondly love prefers;And often, among twelve outsides,Deemed no outside like hers!

One day, as she was sitting downBeside the porter-pump--He came, and knelt with all his fat,And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learnTo like so huge a man,So I must beg you will come hereAs little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suitWith vows, and sighs, and tears,Yet could not pierce her heart, altho'He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued,The maid was cold and proud,And sent him off to Coventry,While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,And thence all back to town,The course of love was never smooth,So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pineTo merely bones and skin,But still he loved like one resolvedTo love through thick and thin.

O Mary! view my wasted back,And see my dwindled calf;Tho' I have never had a wife,I've lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail'd,He heart withstood the dint;Though he had carried sixteen stoneHe could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vowTo break his being's link;For he was so reduced in size,At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise,And waste a deal of breath,But John, tho' he drank nothing else,He drank himself to death!

The cruel maid that caused his loveFound out the fatal close,For looking in the butt, she sawThe butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,But that is only talk--For after riding all his life,His ghost objects to walk!

Two swains or clowns--but call them swains--Whilst keeping flocks on Salisbury plains,For all that tend on sheep as droversAre turned to songsters or to lovers,Each of the lass he call'd his dear,Began to carol loud and clear.First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,In the way of ancient shepherd men;Who thus alternate hitched in song,"All things by turns, and nothing long."

Of all the girls about our place,There's one beats all in form and face;Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead,You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.

To groves and streams I tell my flame,I make the cliffs repeat her name;When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!

When I am walking in the grove,I think of Peggy as I rove.I'd carve her name on every tree,But I don't know my A, B, C.

Whether I walk in hill or valley,I think of nothing else but Sally.I'd sing her praise, but I can singNo song, except "God save the king!"

My Peggy does all nymphs excel,And all confess she bears the bell,--Where'er she goes swains flock together,Like sheep that follow the bell wether.

Sally is tall and not too straight,--Those very poplar shapes I hate;But something twisted like an S,--A crook becomes a shepherdess.

When Peggy's dog her arms empris'nI often wish my lot was hisn;How often I should stand and turn,To get a pat from hands like hern.

I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,To stand about, and stare at she;But when I look, she turns and shies,And won't bear none but their sheep's eyes!

Love goes with Peggy where she goes,--Beneath her smile the garden grows;Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!

Where Sally goes it's always Spring,Her presence brightens everything;The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,It makes brass farthings look like guineas.

For Peggy I can have no joy,She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,As comfortless as sheep with ticks!

Sally is ripe as June or May,And yet as cold as Christmas Day;For when she's asked to change her lot,Lamb's wool,--but Sally, she wool not.

Only with Peggy and with health,I'd never wish for state or wealth;Talking of having health and more pence,I'd drink her health if I had fourpence!

Oh, how that day would seem to shine,If Sally's banns were read with mine;She cries, when such a wish I carry,"Marry come up!" but will not marry.