Gentlemen, Gentlemen, listen to my Ditty,
and a prety new story I to you will sing,
No harm I do mean to Town nor to City;
But I wish us good tydings to come this Spring:
Or he that has most will soon have but little.
Poor England is gotten to such a mad strain,
Rich Jack with poor Gill may walk to the Spittle.
To pray for good tydings to come o’re the main.

For I am a poore Plough-lad, and in great distresse
My Master is gone alas! what shall I do,
And I a poor Servant here sorely opprest,
Great loads and taxations I am brought unto;
Yet ou’t I livy well as many can tell,
My land in good tillage my self to maintain;
Now every [?]un threatens me for to pillage,
But I would that my Master would come home again.

Gentlemen, Gentlemen, I could well think on it,
If that my Master would come home again,
Though it may be there is some would look sadly on it,
Yet he that is honest would never complain:
A Servant thats true, his joys would renew;
But he that is rotten be sure would complain,
But if it were faulty, it were best to be packing.
If that my Master should come home again.

Countrey-man, Cuntrey-man, that hears my Ditty
Lissen unto me, mark what I shall say,
Ther's no honest man in Town nor in Citty,
But if he be bound then he must obey:
His gold and his money he must not spare,
The Cause of poor England for to maintain,
And the weeping-crosse may sall to his share,
But I would that my Master would come home again.

Yeomandry, Yeomandry, to you I call,
Lissen unto me as well as the rest;
Your lands and your livings be they great or small,
Your fortune’s to pay here as well as the rest:
Though Canons be roaring, and Bullets be flying,
And legs and Armes doth fly in the main,
Men still must stand to it and never fear dying.
But I would that my master would come home again.

And as for us Plough-men as well as the rest,
Much sorrow comes to us: yet for us now pray,
We do not withstand, but must pay with the best,
If for it we work, I say, both night and day:
To the Plough and Cart with a heavy heart,
To stir up our ground, and to save our Grain;
So small is our share that fals to our part,
Would God that my Master would come home again.

Thus like to the Ant and the painful Bee.
We labor and toyl all the days of our life,
Though small to be got, we must give a great fee,
Nay, I could say more, but I love no strife:
Yet few there be, but may understand
The truth of my Ditty why I do complain:
Yet I wish true Peace would pity this Land,
Would God that my Master would come home again,

And now for all Trades-men that lives in the City,
I wish you good fortune as well as the rest;
I pray you consider well of this my Ditty,
And then you may see who is the most opprest:
For we with hard labor our money do get,
With toyling and moyling in sorrow and pain,
No sooner we have it but from us irs fet.
But I would thus my Master would come home again.

O my Master is gone, and my Mistris too,
And I am despised by every Clown.
My sorrows increase, alas! what shall I do,
No pleasure I finde in City nor Town:
For I do lament, and sorely repent,
The losse of my Master it will be my hane
Though some do rejoyce, I am discontent
Would God that my Master would come home again.

And now to conclude, and end this my Ditty,
The truth of my minde I here have made known,
All honest Plough-men in Town or in City,
May well understand why I make this mone:
For my Master is fled, and Love banished,
Small truth in this world I see for to rain,
No pleasure I find at beonor at boord,
Until that my Master doth come home again.