Classic Poem

Run to Love's lottery! Run, maids, and rejoice:
When, drawing your chance, you meet your own choice;
And boast that your luck you help with design,
By praying cross-legged to Old Bishop Valentine.
Hark, hark! a prize is drawn, and trumpets sound!
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra!
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra!

Hark, maids! more lots are drawn! prizes abound.
Dub! dub a, dub a, dub! the drum now beats!
And, dub a, dub a, dub, echo repeats.
As if at night the god of war had made
Love's queen a skirmish for a serenade.
Haste, haste, fair maids, and come away!
The priest attends, your bridegrooms stay.
Roses and pinks will be strewn where you go;
Whilst I walk in shades of willow, willow.
When I am dead let him that did slay me
Be but so good as kindly to lay me
There where neglected lovers mourn,
Where lamps and hallowed tapers burn,
Where clerks in quires sad dirges sing,
Where sweetly bells at burials ring.
My rose of youth is gone
Withered as soon as blown!
Lovers go ring my knell!
Beauty and love farewell!
And lest virgins forsaken
Should, perhaps, be mistaken
In seeking my grave, alas! let them know
I lie near a shade of willow, willow.