Classic Poem

From a lonesome old house, near Holbeach Wash-way
(The Wash, you must know, is an arm of the sea),
A poor wanderer writes, to let your spouse know
Here's nothing can equal the charms of her Rowe.

At this distance, I hope, for the sake of my rhyme,
She'll grant me her pardon if I call you mine:
Since no other meaning the word mine can know
Than perfect respect for her excellent Rowe.

Here gentry, and yeomen, and farmers appear
As Christian as Jews, and as rough as a bear;
They tipple like swine, and they treat their wives so,
They're monsters, methinks, when compared to her Rowe.

Here Flora's fine garments unheeded are worn,
The flowers neglected the meadows adorn;
The rose's rich scent, when I smell as I go,
I think is less sweet than the voice of my Rowe.

The lark at my window her matin begins,
And constantly there still each morning she sings;
I wake, and cry " Pretty musicianer, go,
Thy melody's naught to the verse of my Rowe."

The winds catch my accents, and, striving to please,
They mournfully whisper each night through the trees:
" The longer thou stay'st thou'lt more sensible grow;
Here's nothing can charm like the wit of thy Rowe."

Abroad as I walk through the streets and the lawns,
Where the deer frisk and play with the tender young fawns,
The brooks seem to murmur along as I go,
" Here's naught can delight like the wit of the Rowe."

Like the Persian each morning impatient I rise
To view the sun peeping just out of the skies;
Then wish that as swiftly as he I could go,
That like him each day I might visit my Rowe.

Then gaze on his beams, though he scorches my brow,
And often in raptures aloud I cry now,
" I almost adore thee because that I know
This moment thou gild'st the abode of my Rowe."

When Phoebus forsakes me, then Cynthia's pale light
Is welcome to me, and I bless the kind night,
That in Nancy's dear arms will those pleasures bestow
She only can give to the soul of her Rowe.

Judicious, fair nymph, would all women like thee
Prefer wit and good sense to wealth and degree,
No ebb of our pleasures we females should know:
But ah! where's the man to compare to thy Rowe?

The Town and the Court too but few can afford:
There's Wellwood the Doctor and H — — y the L — d;
To the first under heaven my life I do owe,
And thank him for saving the spouse of my Rowe.

The second, alas! I dare only declare
'Tis well he's a Lord and that I am not fair:
His eyes have such power — but I'll say no mo,
The Lord above bless him together with Rowe.

Oh! might I obtain but one wish I would choose,
It is that your friendship I never may lose;
And that the next age may my happiness know,
That I lived, and was known to the excellent Rowe.