Page:Plowman's ditty.pdf/8

 I'm grown so weak, a gentle breeze; of the dusky winnowing fan. Would blow me o'er yon beechy trees, and all for thee my smirky Nan.

The Ale-wife misses me of late, I used to take a hearty cann; Rut now I neither drink nor eat, unless ’tis brew’d and bak'd by Nan.

The baker bakes the best of bread, the flour he takes and leaves the bran; The bran is every other maid, compar'd with thee, my smirky Nan.

But Dick o' the green, that nesty lown, last Sunday to my mistress ran He snatch’d a kiss, I knock’d him down, which hugely pleas'd my smirky Nan.

But hark! the roaring rodger comes, and rattles tantara tarran; She leaves her cows for noisy drums, woes me I’ve lost my smirky Nan.