The Beggar-boy of the North:  
Whose lineage and calling to th'world is proclaimed,  
Which is to be sung to a Tune so named.  
 

FRom ancient pedigrée by due descent,  
I well can derive my generation,  
Throughout all Christendom and also Kent:  
my calling is known both in Term and Uacation,  
My Parents old taught me to be bold,  
I'll never be daunted what ever is spoken,  
Where ere I come my custom I hold,  
and cry, Good your worship bestow one token.   

In ragged raiments I wander about,  
both hot and cold weather I'm armed to endure,  
Though but a Boy I am sturdy and stout,  
a living by begging I easily procure:  
My skin is made like armour of proof,  
by Sun nor by frost 'twill never be broken,  
No threatening s 〈…〉 s shall keep me aloof,  
but still I will cry, Good your worship one token.   

My Father my Mother, my Grandsire and Grannum,  
my Uncles, my Aunts, and all my kindred,  
Did maund for Louvre, casum and pannum,  
then wherefore should I from the Trade be hindered  
Cat will to kind, the Proverb doth say,  
'tis pity old customs should be broken,  
Still as I wander along on the way,  
I'll cry, good your worship bestow one token.   
 

Although in the Quierken I have been oft,  
and by the Rumcoe and the Harmanbecke frighted,  
Yet my old Trade I will set aloft,  
wherein all my lineage have chiefly delighted,  
I have eat shame, and drunk after she same,  
I little regard what to me is spoken,  
Loud in the streets my mind I proclaim,  
and cry, good your worship bestow one token.   

To whet your charity, I have a trick,  
a trick said I, nay I have a hundred,  
With a Cap on my head, I can feign to be sick,  
to see my strange gestures the people have wondered  
I can counterfeit a lame arm or a leg,  
and sometimes I'll seem like one that is broken,  
This must he do that exactly will beg,  
and cry, good your worship bestow one token.   

I can hold my fingers as though they were lame,  
lest people should say I were able to labour,  
And under a hedge along I can frame,  
as though it were writ by the Justice's favour,  
From Parish to Parish along as I room,  
my wants in black and white are spoken,  
Go where I will I am always at home;  
and still I do cry, good your worship one token.    

The second part.  
To the same Tune.  
 

THe Crow her own bird doth déem the most fair,  
and so do I of my profession;  
If I were adopted a rich man's Heir,  
this life of my heart hath ta'en such possession,  
That I should leave my livings and lands,  
and flee like a Citizen when he is broken,  
I cannot abide to work with my hands,  
but still I must cry, good your worship one token.   

The richest Miser that liveth this day,  
hath not so much ground as I at disposing,  
My fields lie open as the high way.  
I wrong not the Country by greedy enclosing,  
I spend what I get, and get what I spend,  
all this for certain which I have spoken,  
I am no other than what I pretend,  
for still do I cry, good your worship one token.   

I am not in debt, there's good reason therefore,  
for no man will credit me with half a shilling,  
And yet if I chance to run on the score,  
to pay for my booze of all things I am willing,  
When I with my Mates at the bousing ken meet,  
our brains with strong liquor sound are soaken,  
And when I want lower than I step unto th' street,  
and cry, good your worship bestow one token.   
 

Ile heat of the Summer I lead a fine life,  
to walk the green meadows for my recreation,  
And when I am old enough to have a wife.  
I'll join with my doxy on the wand'ring fashion,  
Under a hedge I can lie and snort,  
by no worldly cares my sleep is broken,  
And now and then I repair to the Court,  
where I do beg greater g●●ts than a token.   

All the cold winter I keep rendevouse:  
in an old spacious barn by beggars frequented,  
Or else in the bousing ken I do carouse,  
and to lib instrummell I am well contented,  
I am not proud nor high in conceit,  
though some beggars are so as it is spoken;  
I care more for drink than for clothing or meat,  
which makes me cry, good your worship one token.   

In the North Country I first had my birth:  
from whence I came naked unto London City,  
Where a good fellow composed all of mirth,  
upon the poor Boy did take some pity,  
And now he hath clothed me in black and white,  
and mended my rags which before were broken▪  
If this my Ditty will yield you delight,  
I shall thank you more than I would for a token.   
FINIS.   

London, printed for F. Grove.