The Post Boy

I'm a Hounslow young lad, and Tidy's my name, Full many a job have I drove, Yet never cross'd nag that was windgall'd or lame, But always had such as would move. A tight pair of buckskins and boots jetty black, My spurs, ever polish'd and smart, A trim little jacket to put on my back, Was always the pride of my heart.

A good ten miles an hour, in common my pace, When leaving behind ev'ry rip, They try to put by, but I lead them a chase, And tip 'em the smack of the whip; When oft as I'm driving along in this stile, Thro' many a town as I go, The girls of each inn, will bestow me a smile, Their meaning I very well know.

Then I find 'em agig whenever I call, And loll at my ease on return, I laugh, and I jeer, and I talk with 'em all, But Patty's ray only concern; At an inn near to Windsor, this little rogue dwells, Well known by her nice winning air, That all other girls, of the place, she excels, And is call'd pretty Patty the Fair.

We have both made a vow, should we get the stuff, To marry, and so become one; As others have done, for 'tis common enough, We'll set up an inn of our own; Then she'll be call'd madam, and I'll be call'd sir, We'll stick up the sign of the star, 'Mongst post boys, and waiters, I'll bustle and stir, While Pat hollows loud in the bar.