Devon

It’s of a pretty ploughboy was ploughing on the plain, His horses stood beneath the shade; Down in yonder grove he went whistling to his plough, When by chance there he met a pretty maid.

'Tis of a jolly ploughing-man, Was ploughing of his land He called Ho! He called Wo! And bade his horses stand. Upon his plough he sat, I trow,

I’m Roger Rough, a ploughman, A ploughman’s son am I, And like my thirsty father, My throttle’s always dry;

As I walked out one May morning when may was all in bloom I went into the meadows to taste the sweet perfume I went into the flowery fields to turn my head a while Where I saw Kilpit the pretty ploughing boy, who did my heart beguile.

Come all you jolly ploughboys Of courage, stout and bold That labour all the winter Through stormy winds and cold.

Now I be a true-bred country chap, me father comes from Fareham Me mother got some more like I an’ her well knows how to rare [rear] ’em Some people calls I bacon-fat and others turnip ’ead But I can prove I bain’t no calf although I’m country bred.

Oh! I be a turnit hoer, from Zummerzetshire I came. My parents is hard working volks, Giles Webster be my name. 'Twas on a zummer's mornin', e'en at the break of day, When I took my hoe and off did go zum fifty miles away.

A farmer’s daughter fair and gay, A young man came a-courting, He was a bold and a rakish blade, And soon gained her affection.

Come ye men, come ye maidens, to the harvest feast today, Bring your sickles and your wagons, bring your hearts so light and gay; For the corn is ripe and golden, and the reapers' work is done, And we'll crown the year with gladness when the harvest home is won.

I am a jolly thresherman, I work both late and soon, To try and earn my living in the cold and frost of noon. The farmer he comes up to me and this to me does say: “My lad, if you will thresh for me, I’ll see you well repaid.”