KENTISH DICK; OR, THE Lusty Coach-Man of
Westminster.
With an Account how he Tickled the Young Lasses, and caused their sad Lamentation.
Tune of,
Let Mary live long.
Licensed according to Order.
IN
Westminster town,
you there may discover,
a wavering lover;
The tawny and brown,
as well as the fair,
He will commonly court,
He is right for the sport:
a Coach-man by trade,
Stout brawny young
Richard,
Stout brawny young
Richard,
a delicate blade.
He came out of
Kent,
with delicate triming,
for pleasing young women;
He give's them content,
wherever he goes:
He'll have at them all,
Both the short and the tall,
and follows the trade:
His name is stout
Richard,
His name is stout
Richard,
a brawny young blade.
He's loath to be ty'd,
to any one woman;
he love's to live common,
The name of a bride,
he cannot endure:
When he's weary of one,
To another he'll run,
now this is the trade
Of lusty stout
Richard,
Of lusty stout
Richard,
that dexterous blade.
He's wanton and wild,
a
Stallion he passes,
and five or six lasses,
Are gotten with child
by him, as I hear;
Yet he'll marry with none,
Though they make their sad moan,
but does them degrade:
A brawny young fellow,
A brawny young fellow,
a dexterous blade.
Dear
Richard, one crys,
behold my condition,
with humble submission,
And watry eyes,
your love I intreat,
Tell me, when we shall wed?
You have my maiden-head.
he does her degrade,
And swears he'll not marry,
And swears he'll not marry,
no impudent jade.
She told him again▪
when first he did use her,
he would not abuse her▪
Yet this was in vain,
like
Hector he swore,
That he'd never be ty'd,
To any one bride:
thus did he degrade,
The poor loving creature,
The poor loving creature,
that once was a maid,
A horrible crime,
some says, their is seven,
and others eleven,
At this very time,
with child by this spark;
Who does waddle about,
For to find the knave out,
that does them degrade:
He crys he hath knickt it,
He crys he hath knickt it,
an impudent blade.
We
[...]ll geld him says one,
of nutmegs we'll free him,
if ever we see him,
Or he'll over-run
all maids of the town:
Let's sever from him,
That unruly limb,
which did us degrade;
He is, I must tell you,
He is, I must tell you,
an impudent blade.
Printed for J. Dencon, at the Angel in G [...]lt-spur-street without Newgate.