Classic Poem

CANTO II.

Now reader, be patient the while
That your musical maker of metre
May set forth the graces in style
Of Tabitha Towzer's friend Peter.

He's tall; like swamp cedar, I ween,
But shrub-oak was never so nurly:
Like crab-apple juice was his mien,
And they christened him Peter the Surly.

He went every winter to school,
But wrought on a farm in the summer;
Was not very far from a fool,
But made a most capital drummer.

He'd read Morse's geography through,
Of novels some few, and romances,
Had courted of girls, one or two,
But never could tickle their fancies.

For he was so awkward a chap,
That the girls would have none of his fumbling,
But gave him the bag , with a slap,
And sent Mister Peter home grumbling.

But truely he was, on the whole,
A young man that wasn't so shabby,
The neighbours all thought it was droll,
If he wouldn't do for Miss Tabby.

For he was so brawny and stout,
That his prowess exceeded all praising,
There wasn't a lad thereabout
Could wrestle so well at " A Raising. "

Could mow full an acre a day,
And set the psalm well at a meeting,
But fell in love — ah, well-a-day!
With Tabitha Towzer, his sweeting.

He set out to court her, one night,
When he'd got his new Sunday dress on,
But study'd to say what was right,
As school boy would study his lesson.

He'd learnt a few hard names by heart,
Lest he should appear to be stupid,
Of Venus and Dian, so smart,
And the little (what's his name) Cupid.

And, now having rigg'd himself out
Quite up to the pink of the fashion,
With whiskey he made his heart stout,
Then went to give vent to his passion.

By crossing the deacon's home lot
He arriv'd in good season to woo her,
But thought he, I'd rather be shot,
Than attempt to say any thing to her.

He took round the room a few strides,
And follow'd her into the kitchen,
Then told her " Miss Tab, my insides,
" Mr. Cupid like taylor is stitching.

" I feel most uncommonly droll,
" When by you I chance to be marching,
" My heart waxes hot as a coal,
" And hops like a pea that is parching.

" Can Tabby be cruel to night,
" And be such a hard-hearted creature,
" Her humble-come-tumble to slight,
" Who loves her so well he could eat her.

" You beat Venus, twenty to one,
" Though poets say she is divine,
" Outshine her as much as the sun
" Does a torch-light that's made of pitch-pine. "

" Quoth she, you may speechify fine,
" And swear you will love till all's blue;
" You may coax, you may wheedle, and whine,
" But faith I'll not spark it with you. "

" Miss Tabb I shall know a good bit,
" If nothing should happen, a year hence,
" Will set out to live by my wit,
" And make a most dashing appearance.

" Though father says he can't afford
" To make a grand college-learn'd lad o' me,
" He'll pay Indian corn for my board,
" And send me a month to the academy. "

" I pray you to pity the smart
" Of one who is caught in love's steel-trap,
" And arrows stuck into his heart,
" Like wooden-pegs into a heel-tap! "

Our lover now feeling secure,
That his rhetorick couldn't but please her,
Made horrid attempt, to be sure,
(If a body may say it,) to squeeze her;

But Tabby was terribly wroth
To think he should think to get round her,
And snatch'd up a ladle for broth,
And knock'd him down flat as a flounder!