A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
When I was in service in Rosemary Lane,
I won the good will of my master and my dame,
Till a sailor came there one night to lay,
And that was the beginning of my misery.
He called for a candle to light him to bed,
And likewise a silk handkerchief to tie up his head,
To tie up his head, as sailors will do,
Saying, you, my pretty Polly, will you come too?
Well this maid, being young and foolish, she thought it no harm
To lie into bed for to keep herself warm.
And what was done there I will never disclose,
But I wish that short night had been seven long years.
Next morning this sailor so early arose,
And into my apron three guineas did throw,
Saying, this I will give, and more I will do,
If you will be my Polly wherever I go.
Now if itís a boy, he will fight for the king,
And if itís a girl, she will wear a gold ring.
She will wear a gold ring, and a dress all aflame,
And remember my service in Rosemary Lane.