Classic Poem

Sir , my hands are hard, she said,
 But they do very well for me:
They are spread wi' work, they are rough and red,
 Like a servant's hands should be.

Oh, they suit uncommon well,
 Both me and my Missis too!
But feel 'em once, an' you'll easy tell
 As they'd never do for you .

You want a lady's hand,
 What is soft and white and small;
And fingers wi' rings, to look pretty an' grand
 In the parlours up at the Hall.

That's the sort o' hand you want—
 An' I lay you'll come to it soon;
For there's some as can, if there's many as can't,
 An' yourn is a 'ticing tune.

You can 'tice the heart of a maid—
 Aye, even a heart like mine,
As canna keep up wi' the things you've said,
 By reason you talk so fine.

But I winna be brought to shame,
 Nor I winna bring shame to none:
I ha' naught to give but a honest name,
 An' a day's work thoroughly done:

So you'd better by half turn back,
 An' leave me an' let me be:
I shall lose my place, I shall get the sack,
 If you keep on courting o' me!