A Choice collection of new songs and ballads the words made to several pleasant tunes / by Mr. D'urfey ; with tunes transpos'd for the flute.

Gillian of Croyden, a New BALLAD:

The Words made to the Tune of a Country Dance, call'd Mall Peatly.

〈♫〉〈♫〉 ONe Ho╌li╌day last Summer, from four to se╌ven by Croy╌den Chimes; three Lasses Toping Rummers, were set a prating of the Times, a Wife call'd Ioan of the Mill; a Maid they call'd Bon╌ney brown Nell, a Widow mine Hostess, Gillian of Croy-den, Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, Young Gillian, Iol╌ly Gillian of Croyden, take off your Glass, cry'd Gillian of Croyden, a Health to our Ma╌ster Will.

Ah! Ioan cry'd the Maiden, This Peace will bring in Mill'd Money store, We now sha'n't miss of Trading; And Sweet-hearts will come on thick, ye whore. No more will they Fight and Kill, But with us good Liquour, will swill: These will be Rare Tymes cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, young Gillian, Plump Gillian of Croyden, Take off your Glass cry'd Gillian of Croyden, A Bumper to Master Will.

III.

We've now right understanding, Hans Dick, and Monsieur shake Hands i'th' streets; Dragoons too are Disbanding, Gadzookes then Nelly let's watch our Sheets, For a Redcoat you know that has will, Can Plunder and Pilfer with Skill, I'll look to my Smocks cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, bold Gillian, Wary Gillian of Croyden, Take off your Glass cry'd Gillian of Croyden, A Health to our Master Will.

IV.

Nel, then with Arms a Kembo, Cry'd News from Sea not so well does come; For want of Captain Bembo, The Chink and Poynti are safe got home: Tho' he could not help that ill, The fault lies in some body still, Would that Rogue were hang'd cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, plump Gillian, Loyal Gillian, of, &c.

V.

Strange Lords will now come over, And all our Bells will Ring out for Joy; The Czar of Muscovor, Who is, Lord bless him, some ten foot high: I'll see him what e'er comes o'th Mill, Would our Lads were like him cry'd Nell, Great pity they ant cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of croyden, Gillian, young Gillian, Tall Gillian of Croyden, Nevertheless cry'd Gillian of Croyden, A Bumper to Master Will.

VI.

Strange News the Jacks of the City, Have gott cry'd Ioan, but we mind no tales; That our good King through wonderfull pity, Will give his Crown to the Prince of Wales, That Peace may the stronger be still, And that they may no longer Rebell. Pish! pox tis a Jest cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, bold Gillian, Witty Gillian, Gillian of Croyden, Take off your Glass cry'd Gillian of Croyden, A Health to our Master Will.

VII.

So long top'd these Lasses, Till Tables, Chairs, and Stools went round; Strong Wine and thumping Glasses, In three short hours their Senses drown'd: Then home to her Grannum reel'd Nell, And Ioan no more Brimmers could fill, And off from her Chair drop'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, plump Gillian, Drunk Gillian of Croyden, Here's the last Drop cry'd Gillian of Croyden, A Bumper to Master Will.