Dear ladies attend to the song,
Of a CROP in the prime of gay life,
Young, healthy, and wealthy, and strong,
And languishing for a fond wife.
CHORUS.
Crop’s determin’d to marry,
He’s tir’d of a bachelor’s round,
Crop wants a comely clean woman,
With some dirty acres of ground.
A bachelor wild CROP has been,
But variety’s charms he’ll forsake,
And constancy, maids, will be seen,
To follow the reign of the rake.
Your suitor for conjugal rites,
Promises, maids, to his praise,
To crown, with affection, your nights,
With mirth and good humour your days.
Says Lydia, with love-looking eye,
Vow and promise you bachelors can,
But sure, till his virtues she try,
No maid should decide on her man.
The language of Spintext let’s cite,
’Tis take him for better or worse,
His heart, girls, you’ll find is as light,
Aye! light as a transparent purse.
But Crop’s an estate in the fens,
Deeply dipp’d in the water we hear,
For his steward the reck’ning sends,
And it brings him in nothing a year.
To a widow, some say, he is sold,
Who keeps in the Borough a shop,
As she kill’d her first DEARY, behold!
A beautiful prospect for Crop.
In an old maid’s affection’s CROP’S place;
But he ne’er will be married, we hope,
To one in whose frost-bitten face
There’s ruin in razors and soap.
Gods! give Crop the girl kind and fair,
Of feminine manners and grace,
Whose skin is not cover’d with hair,
To kiss without scrubbing his face.
Crop once lov’d a boarding-school gig,
All his letters she stitch’d in her stays,
Which made little Tittup look big
With vows, protestations, and praise.
If, present, there be such a lass,
And tho’ but one chemise to her back,
I’ll take her to Gretna’s green grass,
On swift Pegasus poet’s old hack.
The life that is merry and short,
Crop’s reason and passions approve,
A life of all lives, ’tis the sort
To give life to the woman we love.
So Crop’s determin’d to marry,
He’s tir’d of a dull single life,
He’ll not die an old bachelor,
If he can get a young wife.