SONGS. 93

 

 

Then in comes the tripe-woman,
So fine and so neat,

She-bids me three halfpence
For my cow’s feet.

Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.

Then in comes the butcher,
That nimble-tongued youth,
Who said she was carrion,
But he spoke not the truth.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.

The skin of my cowly

Was softer than silk,
And three times a day

My poor cow would give milk.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.