Page:National Ballad and Song (1897), vol. 1.djvu/33

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A MANS YARD

11

It is a grafte Horne on a prettye head,A staffe to make a Countesse bedd;

There is never a Ladye in this landBut that will take it in her hand;The fayrest mayd that ere tooke liffe,For loue of this became a weife;

And every wench, by her owne will,Would keepe [it] in her quiuer still.When sturdye stormes arise,Shall blustering windes appeare:

I finde ofte tymes dust in ashes heare,Live kindled coles of fire.With good intent, marke well my minde,You shall herein a secrett find.

[Then follows a kind of rebus:—]

Oh, my faire misteres,

in;

upp your thighes, The

in;And put my

into your

,And then my

shall wag apace,Sir, is

in your mistres then

not to deepe, lest if thow

inand drowne my

in my

and driue your

out of his placeOwles, Farewell, I wish your trees may growe