From The Vocal Library (London: Sir Richard Phillips, 1822), page 571:


THE GOLDEN GLOVE

A wealthy young squire, of Tamworth, we hear,
He courted a nobleman's daughter so fair,
And to marry her it was his intent,
All friends and relations had given their consent.

The time was appointed for the wedding day,
A young farmer was appointed to give her away;
As soon as the lady the farmer did spy,
He inflamed her heart— O my heart! she did cry.

She turn'd from the Squire, tho' nothing she said,
Instead of being married she took to her bed,
The thought of the farmer still run in her mind,
A way for to have him she quickly did find.

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on,
And hunting she went with her dog and her gun;
She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell;
Because in her heart she did love him full well.

She oftentimes fired, but nothing she kill'd,
At length the young farmer came into the field;
And to discourse with him it was her intent,
With her dog and her gun to meet him she went.

I thought you had been at the wedding, she cry'd,
To wait on the Squire and give him his bride;
No, sir, said the farmer, If the truth I may tell,
I'll not give her away, for I love her too well."

Suppose the lady should grant you her love,
You know that the Squire your rival will prove;
Why, then, says the farmer, I'll take sword in hand,
By honour I'll gain her whene'er she command.

It pleased the lady to find him so bold,
She gave him a glove that was flower'd with gold,
And told him she found it when coming along,
As she was a hunting with her dog and her gun.

This lady went home, with a heart full of love,
And gave out a notice that she'd lost a glove:
And the man who had found it, and brought it to she,
The man that did bring it her husband should be.

The farmer was pleas'd when he heard the news,
With heart full of joy to the lady he goes:
Dear honoured lady, I've picked up your glove,
And hope you'll be pleased to grant me your love.

It's already granted, I will be your bride,
I love the sweet breath of a farmer, she cry'd;
I'll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cows,
While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough.

And when she was married she told of the fun,
How she hunted the farmer with her dog and her gun.
But now I've got him so fast in my snare,
I'll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare.