BALLAD. (How kind and how good of his…)

How kind and how good of his dear majesty, In the midst of his matters so weighty, To think of so lowly a creature as me, A poor old woman of eighty.

Were your sparks to come round me, in love with each charm, Say I have nothing to say t'ye; I can get a young fellow to keep my back warm, Though a poor old woman of eighty.

John Strong is as comely a lad as you'll see, And one that will never say nay t'ye; I cannot but think what a comfort he'll be To me, an old woman of eighty.

Then fear not, ye fair ones, though long past your youth, You'll have lovers in scores beg and pray t'ye, Only think of my fortune, who have but one tooth, A poor old woman of eighty.