The Merry Wooing of Robin and Joan "Sellengers Round"

Robin: O mother, chave bin a batchelour

This twelve and twanty yeare;

And I’ze have often been a wowing

And yet ch’am never the neare;

Joan Gromball chee’l ha’ non a mee,

Ize look so like a lowt;

But i’vaith, cham as propper a man as zhee—

Zhee need not be zo stout!

She zaies if I cond daunce and zing

As Thomas Miller con,

Or cut-a-cauper as litle Jack Taylor,

O how chee’d love mee thon!

But zoft and faire, chil none of that,

Ivaith cham not zo nimble;

The tailor hath nought to trouble his thought

But his needel and his thimble.

Mother: O zon, th’art of a lawful age,

And a jolly tidy [plump; in good condition!] boy;

Ide have thee try her once a gaine,

She can but say thee nay;

Robin: Then, O Gramarcy, mother,

Chill set a good vace o’ the matter!

Chill dresse myzell as fine as a dog,

And chill have a fresh bout at her.

And first chill put on my zunday parrell

That’s lac’t about the quarters;

With a paire of buckram slopps [coarse baggy breeches], and

A slanting pair of garters;

And with my sword tide vast to my zide,

And my grandvather’s dug’en and dagger,

And a peacock’s veather in my capp—

Then, oh how I’ch shall swagger!

Mother: Nay, tak thee a lockrum [coarse linen from Brittany] napkin, son,

To wipe thy snotty nose,

Robin: T’s noe matter vor that—chill snort it out,

And vlurt it athwart my cloths;

Mother: Ods bodikins—nay, fy away,

I prethee son do not so;

Be mannerly son, till thou canst tell

Whether sheele ha’ thee or noe.

Robin: But zirrah mother—harke awhile,

Whoes that, that comes so near?

Mother: ’Tis Joan Grumball! Hold thy peace,

For feare that she do heare!

Robin: Nay on’t be she, chill dresse my words

In zuch a scholard’s grace;

But virst of all chall take my honds

And lay them athwart her vace.

(To Joan) Good morrow my honey, my sugger-candy,

My pretty litle mouse;

Cha hopes thy vather and mother be well,

At home in thine own house;

I’ch am zhame vac’d to show my mind,

Cham zure thou knowst my arrant [errand];

Zum zen, Jug, that I mun ha thee—

Joan: At leasure, sir, I warrant.

‘You must’ (Sir Clown) is for the king,

And not for such a mome [from Momus, God of Ridicule];

You might have said: ‘By’er leave, faire maid’,

And let your ‘must’ alone.

Robin: Ich am noe Mome, nor clowne, that’s vlat—

Cham in my zunday parrell!

I’ch came vor love and I pray, so tak’t

Che hopes wee will not quarrel.

Joan: O Robbin, dost thou love me so well?

Robin: Ivaith, abomination!

Joan: Why then, you should have fram’d your words

Into a finer fashion;

Robin: Vine vashions and vine speeches too

As schollards volks con utter—

Chad wrather speak but twa words plaine

Thon haulfe a score and stutter.

Chave land, chave houss, chav twa vat beasts,

That’s better thon vine speeches;

Joan: T’s a sign that Fortune favours fools,

If she let’s them have such riches!

Robin: Hark, how she comes upon mee now—

I think it be a good sign!

Joan: He that would steale any wit from thee

Had need to rise betime!

(The version in ‘Wit and Drollery’ ends here. The Roxburghe broadsheet version adds the following final verse:)

Robin: O Joan this secret long I’se kept,

And woud ha longer done it,

Had not my passion been zo heap’d,

Ise had no more room for it!

Joan: And are you in love, as you zay?

Robin: Yes, vaith and troth, Ise zware it!

Joan: Then prithee Robin, set the day

And wees ee’n both be married.