Classic Poem

There is a prophecy of our line,
Told by some great grand-dame of mine
I once attempted to divine.

'Tis that two children, then unborn,
Would know a wealthy wedding morn,
Or die in poverty forlorn.

These children would be of her name.
If to the bridal bans they came,
The house would gather strength and fame.

But if they came not, woe is me,
The line would ever cease to be,
The wealth would take its wings and flee.

If all the signs are coming true,
I am the child she pictured, who
The name should keep or hide from view.

In our domain of liberty,
Our heed is light of pedigree,
I care not for the prophecy.

For what to me our wealth or line?
I only wish to make her mine--
The maid my aunt asked in to dine.