Classic Poem

Of a brazier's daughter who lived near,
A pretty story you shall hear;
And she would up to London go,
To seek a service you shall know.

Her master had one only son,
Sweet Betsy's heart was fairly won,
For Betsy being so very fair
She drew his heart in a fatal snare.

One Sunday night he took his time,
Unto sweet Betsy he told his mind.
Swearing by all the powers above,
" 'Tis you, sweet Betsy, 'tis you I love."

His mother happening for to hear,
Which threw her in a fatal snare,
For soon she contrived sweet Betsy away
For a slave in the province of Virginia.

" Betsy, Betsy, pack up your clothes,
For I must see what the country shows;
You must go with me a day or two,
Some of our relations there to view."

They rode till they came to a sea town
Where ships were sailing in the Down.
Quickly a captain there was found,
Unto Virginia they were bound.

Both hired a boat, alongside they went,
Sweet Betsy rode in sad discontent,
For now sweet Betsy's upon the salt wave,
Sweet Betsy's gone for an arrant slave.

A few days after she returned again,
" You are welcome, mother," says the son,
" But where is Betsy, tell me I pray,
That she behind so long doth stay?"

" O son, O son, I plainly see
How great your love is for pretty Betsy;
Of all such thoughts you must refrain,
Since Betsy's sailing over the watery main.

" We would rather see our son lie dead
Than with a servant girl to wed."
His father spoke most scornfully,
" It would bring disgrace to our family."

Four days after the son fell bad,
No kind of music could make him glad,
He sighed and slumbered, and often cried,
" 'Tis for you, sweet Betsy, for you I died."

A few days after the son was dead,
They wrung their hands and shook each head,
Saying, " Would our son but rise again,
We would send for Betsy over the main."