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Well, there was an old farmer who lived down in Spain,
He had a young servant, pretty Molly by name;
He had a young servant, well, you know what I mean,
Oh, he wanted to thrash on her thrashing machine.
"Now what about your missus?" Miss Molly did say,
"Oh, to hell with the missus, she's down makin' hay;
She's down makin' hay where the grass is so green,
While you and I thrash on your thrashing machine."
Now, one morning this farmer, not meanin' no harm,
He invited Miss Molly down back of the barn;
He invited Miss Molly, well, you know what I mean,
Oh, he wanted to thrash on her thrashing machine.
Now, the summer was over, and winter came on,
And pretty Miss Molly was lookin' so worn;
She said to the farmer, "You've treated me mean,
You dumped all your oats in my thrashing machine."
Well, come all ye young maidens and listen to me,
Don't let an old farmer an inch 'bove your knee;
For if he can use a pitchfork in between,
He will want to go thrashing on your thrashing machine.
