Classic Poem

Here's all her geer, her wheel, her work;
These little bobbins to and fro,
How oft I've seen her fingers jerk,
Her pretty fingers, white as snow.

Each object to me is so dear,
My heart at sight on't throbbing goes;
'Twas here she sat her down, and here
She told me she was Colin's Rose.

II.

This poesy for her when she's dress'd,
I've brought, alas! how happy. I,
Could I be, like these flowers, caress'd,
And, like them, on her bosom die.

The violet and pink I took,
And every pretty flower that blows;
The rose too, but how mean twill look
When by the side of my sweet Rose.