John Polgreen were hardly a shammick
An’ a pattic would do ‘en bit short
But drulgy he was an’ a drunkard
An’ oftimes he landed in court.
Mazed Monday he’s there all a grizzlin’
But Magistrate’s got nouse in his head
“John Polgreen, ’tis time you stopped ploddin’
And found a good maid for to wed.”
“A great lubber-cock an’ a grankum
You knaw your name’s up for that
All this haysing and a-coozin’
Each sennight you end up gone scat.”
“Now I’ve faggled a plan for to help ‘ee
As a sentence ’twill do just as well,
Though coxy it be, ’tis your makin’
If you hearken to what I now tell.”
“The May is in blowth an’ ’tis Springtime,
And the maids have their viddlers anew,
If you ups an’ takes a fair maiden
Sure ’nuff, she’ll make ‘ee buckle-to.”
And if you get wed by the Whitsun,
A freeman you’ll be you should knaw,
But if you still ‘ent in wedlock
‘Twill be fitty to Bodmin you gaw.”
Our John was chucked-sheep at this sentence
But mazed as a curley that day,
“My gor, I’ll not sleep with no woman,
I won’t be made May-game by they.”
But as he took out of the court house,
A gert loustering maid took ‘im hold,
“I did ‘ear what the Magistrate told ‘ee,
An’ I’ll marry thee, be I so bold.”
John said, “I’ll be a-marryin’ no one.”
Proper flummoxed and mazed by his plight.
“I’m a man who’s some proud of me freedom
And I’d rather be poachin’ at night.”
“But, John,” said the maid, traipsin’ with him,
You need only be wedded one day,
Then you may go off as is fitty,
Once the passon ‘as ‘ad ‘is due say.”
“I’ll not ‘old thee to it, my ‘ansum,
But ‘tid,n proper for ‘ee to be gaoled,
I’m no doxy maid but I’m certain
A man like thee is best bailed.”
Poor John, well ‘ee fell for her crammin’
And next day they were married in haste
Teeled in end was she for to keep him
‘Twould’n right such a man go to waste.
Her bodily charms worked their potions
An’ she lured John Polgreen to her bed,
The shallal-band made a commotion
While Squire’s rabbits that night interbred.
A shammick she were and fernaigin’
A chiel was soon in the womb
Like a chad, John was hooked and was landed
And a brave few like him, to their doom.
So the moral of this ‘ere little ditty
Is that prison’s not all it might seem,
For if you knuckle-in to a maiden,
Not all the milk turns to cream.
