Classic Poem

M ARY , Margaret, Anne, Eliza,
Silent maidens of the mill,
Hear a culprit's sad confession,
Whom your frowns would almost kill.

You were plying heads and elbows,
Puzzling all your cyphering wit,
Fidgeting in twenty postures,
Polls were scratch'd, and nails were bit.

I, meantime, ungrateful varlet,
Quite forgetting all my vows,
(If I could, I'd blush like scarlet,)
Was gone up to Craycombe house.

Now so sad the pangs of conscience,
I am wasted, bark and pith,
Like a wither'd branch of elder,
(So says Mrs Stafford Smith).

Spare me in consideration
Of my weak and nervous state:
Think, when I am drown'd in Avon,
Your regret may come too late.

I should spoil my Sunday waistcoat,
Oxford lose her fairest sprig,
And I'd haunt, I do assure you,
Haunt you in a doctor's wig!