The Madness of Women — II
Mad Maudlin’s ballad
Her song, pleasant & divertive, of questing for Her lost lover:
TO find my Tom of Bedlam Ten Thousand Years I’ll Travel,
Mad Maudlin goes with dirty Toes
to save her Shoes from Gravel.
A Health to Tom of Bedlam, go fill the Seas in Barrels,
I’ll drink it all, well Brew’d with Gall,
and Maudling-Drunk, I’ll Quarrel :
The Drunken Harlot
Yet will I sing Bonny Boys, bonny Mad Boys, Bedlam Boys are Bonny ;
They still go bare and live by the Air,
and want no Drink, nor Money.
I now repent that ever poor Tom was so disdain’d,
My Wits are lost since him I crost,
which makes me go thus Chain’d :
Yet will I sing, &c.
My Staff hath Murder’d Gyants, my Bag a long Knife carries,
To cut Mince-pyes from Children’s Thighs,
with which I feast the Faries :
Yet I will sing, &c.
My Horn is made of Thunder, I stole it out of Heav’n,
The Rain-bow there is this I wear,
for which I thence was driv’n :
Yet will I sing, &c.
I went to Pluto’s Kitchin, to beg some Food one Morning,
And there I got Souls piping hot,
with which the Spits were turning :
Yet will I sing Bonny Boys, bonny Mad Boys, Bedlam Boys are Bonny ;
They still go bare and live by the Air,
and want no Drink, nor Money.
Then took I up a Cauldron where boyl’d Ten Thousand Harlots,
‘Twas full of Flame, yet I drank the same
to the health of all such Varlets.
Yet will I, &c.
A Spirit as hot as Lightning, did in that Journey guide me,
The Sun did shake, and the pale Moon quake,
as soon as e’er they spi’d me :
Yet will I, &c.
And now that I have gotten a Lease, than Dooms-day longer,
To live on Earth with some in Mirth,
ten Whales shall feed my Hunger :
Yet will I, &c.
No Gipsie, Slut, or Doxy, shall win my mad Tom from me,
We’ll weep all Night, and with Stars fight,
the Fray will well become me :
Yet will I, &c.
And when that I have beaten the Man i’th’ Moon to Powder,
His Dog I’ll take, and him I’ll make
as could no Daemon louder :
Yet will I sing Bonny Boys, bonny Mad Boys, Bedlam Boys are Bonny ;
They still go bare and live by the Air,
and want no Drink, nor Money.
From Thomas D’Urfey’s Wit and Mirth, or, Pills to Purge Melancholy*