Classic Poem

While over nice critics, indulging their rage,
Exclaim that all singing's unfit for the stage,
And others though different, are equally wrong,
Who fix all that's pleasing alone in a song.
Such triflers I leave, let them cavil on still,
While I sing in praise of — the maid of the mill.

The stage is a garden we very well know,
Where sense, truth, and virtue, should constantly grow,
The rank weeds of vice be all carefully sought,
Torn up by the roots and expos'd as they ought;
The performance is good, which this end can fulfil,
And this we must own — in the maid of the mill.

Mirth, beauty, and innocence mutually strive
To rouze the attention, and keep it alive,
In Aimworth, true greatness shines strongly confest,
And love's genuine flame glows in Patty's soft breast,
Each bosom responds to her voice's sweet trill,
And wishes success to — — the maid of the mill.

While music, and sense, shall have charms to invite,
And wit, and true humour, afford us delight;
While candour exists in the regions of talle,
And Britons encourage the good and the chaste,
So long (let ill nature declaim as she will)
Applause shall attend on — the maid of the mill.