Classic Poem

Across the street there dwells, I weet,
The flower of all the city,
And oh, could I but tell her charms,
The world would sing my ditty!
Her face is fair,
And graces rare
Of temper with it tally,
And Fate has granted her to bear
The dear old name of Sally!

I lurk behind my window blind
For hours in hopes to spy her,
And if I catch the slightest glimpse
It sets my heart afire.
I swear to you,
No flower yet grew
In garden or in valley,
And paradise itself has few
So lovely as my Sally.

Oh, never think her cheeks of pink,
Nor yet her eyes entice me,
For were these all, some other maids
Have charms that might suffice me.
But in her mien
Where'er she's seen,
If she's in silk or challis,
There shine the maiden and the queen,
The worth and grace of Sally!

She tries no arts to capture hearts,
And none to kindle passion;
Her simple truth is lovelier far
Than all the tricks of fashion,
And Cupid's self,
The smitten elf,
Near her is fain to dally,
And shoots his shafts no more for pelf,
But all for love and Sally!

Oh, would she deign o'er me to reign,
With joy I'd be her minion,
And to her slightest wish I'd lend
Anticipation's pinion;
But oh, if she
Unkind should be,
Since I could never rally,
Say this, dear friends, in praise of me:
“He died for love of Sally!”