Classic Poem

When Jemmy , first began to Love,
He was the finest Swain:
That ever yet a flock had drove,
Or danc'd upon the Plain.
'Twas yau that I, way's me poor heart,
My freedome threw a way,
And finding sweets in every smart:
I could not say him nay.

And ever when he spoke of Love,
He would his eyes decline,
And every sigh, woud take a heart,
Gued faith and why not mine.
He'd press my Hand, and kiss it oft,
His silence spoke his flame,
And whilst he treated me thus soft;
I wisht him more to blame.

Sometimes to feed my flocks with him,
My Jemmy would invite me,
There he the gayest Songs, would sing:
On purpose to delight me,
And Jemmy every grace displ[ay]'d,
Which were enough I trow,
To conquer any princely Maid:
So did he me I vow.

But now for Jemmy must I mourn,
Who to the Wars must go,
His Sheep-hook to a Sword must turn;
Alass! what shall I do.
His Bag-pipe into war-like sounds,
Must now exchanged be,
Instead of Garlands, fearfull Wounds:
Then what becomes of me.