THE PASTRY BAKER.
Tune—“Kate Dalrymple.”
Oh come, sister Polly, and something you’ll hear,
But first let us go from the hearing of mother;
Oh, I’ve got a secret to tell you, my dear,
So, pray, never mention it to any other
But first let us go from the hearing of mother;
Oh, I’ve got a secret to tell you, my dear,
So, pray, never mention it to any other
My heart ever aches for the pastry baker,
I’m almost in quakes for the pastry baker,
But, should I die, who would pay undertaker?—
In short, I’m in love with the pastry baker.
I’m almost in quakes for the pastry baker,
But, should I die, who would pay undertaker?—
In short, I’m in love with the pastry baker.
They say he’s a rogue; and, as ev’ry one knows,
He’s a slave-driving dog to his men of labour;
He calls them his friends, yet he thinks them his foes;
And a curious fellow he is for a neighbour.
He’s a slave-driving dog to his men of labour;
He calls them his friends, yet he thinks them his foes;
And a curious fellow he is for a neighbour.
A hunter of the world is the pastry baker,
A money-gripping carl is the pastry baker;
In truth-speaking terms, some would call him no Quaker,
Should it answer the ends of the pastry baker.
A money-gripping carl is the pastry baker;
In truth-speaking terms, some would call him no Quaker,
Should it answer the ends of the pastry baker.
Yet, when he would woo me, he calls me his dove,
His angel, and every name that is bonny;
I would be ingrate not to give him my love
For his in return, though ’tis more for his money.
His angel, and every name that is bonny;
I would be ingrate not to give him my love
For his in return, though ’tis more for his money.
A man full of matter is the pastry baker,
So free with his flatter is the pastry baker;
But when of his riches he makes me partaker,—
What a lady I shall be for the pastry baker!
So free with his flatter is the pastry baker;
But when of his riches he makes me partaker,—
What a lady I shall be for the pastry baker!
