It’s past parsons to console us:
No, nor no doctor fetch for me:
I can die without my bolus;
Two of a trade, lass, never agree!
Parson and Doctor!—don’t they love rarely,
Fighting the devil in other men’s fields!
Stand up yourself and match him fairly:
Then see how the rascal yields!
X
I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting
Finery while his poor helpmate grubs:
Coin I’ve stored, and you won’t be wanting:
You shan’t beg from the troughs and tubs.
Nobly you’ve stuck to me, though in his kitchen
Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!
Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in,
But our old Jerry you never forsook.