The Bodleian Library has 3 editions of this broadside.

This text is from Real Sailor-Songs edited by John Ashton (London: The Leadenhall Press, 1891), page 33.


THE FEMALE PRESS-GANG

It was in London Town, as we do understand,
Seven lasses, they took a brisk frolick in hand,
And as I protest, they were in sailor's dress,
Not far from Cheapside they resolved to press
Fourteen Taylors.

Then Nancy, she tied her sword by her side,
Resolved she was for to be the guide,
This young female crew, Kate, Bridget and Sue,
And she that went first was Lieutenant Prue,
To press Taylors.

These girls by consent, their minds fully bent,
Unto the house of call at St. James's they went,
But there, in the street, a poor taylor did meet,
They prest him, and he tumbled down at their feet.
O! poor Taylor!

I tell you, says he, I never was at sea,
So I pray you, kind gentlemen to set me free,
And pity my tears—I have seen fifty years,
And never used weapon but bodkin and shears,
Being a Taylor.

Without any regard unto the tape yard,
Whereas a poor taylor was labouring hard,
Upon the shop board Nancy drew out her sword,
And said, to King George you your aid must afford,
Tho' a Taylor.

The Taylor did shake, and quiver, and quake,
At length with trembling voice he did speak,
Whilst tear down did run, I am surely undone,
For, alas! I don't know the right end of a gun,
Being a Taylor.

But, nevertheless, said Bouncing Bess,
You must come along, we've a warrant to press,
And we'll have no excuse—so lay by your goose,
Such nimble young fellows are fit for our use,
Tho' Taylors.

Then unto Round Court, they went, by report,
Where several brisk taylors were making of sport,
With hearts void of fear, when the maidens came there,
They caught them a-napping, as Moss caught the Mare,
Seven Taylors.

They first did resist, but Nan, with her fist;
SHe thump'd them about, till the taylors all hiss'd,
And then, in a rage, all the rest did engage,
And brought them away to Bridewell or Cage,
Seven Taylors.

Then to Tower Lane, with all might and main,
These petticoat press masters hurried again,
For to press, where they knew, both Morgan and Hugh,
A couple belonging to the cross legged crew.
And Welsh Taylors.

Then out Morgan rails, Cot splutter her nails,
Hur is a master taylor, tho' pred up in Wales,
So pray cease your strife, hur has a young wife,
Besides hur was never once kill'd in hur life:
Hur's a Taylor.

But right or wrong, they bandied Taffy along,
Till at length they did meet two more in the throng,
Then said Sukey Flinn, you must serve the King,
These lasses, they press'd and brought them all in.
Fourteen Taylors.