Classic Poem

Where are you going lovely maid
The morning fine & early
Im going to Walkerd Sir she said
& made across the barley

Her neck a thumb & finger span
Her bosom swelling over
Her waist was half the vulgar kind
An armful for a lover

I asked her name she blushed away
The question seemed to burn her
A neighbour came & passed the day
& called her Patty Turner

She led me on a pleasant way
Through fields when brown & fallow
Dear Walkerd lay upon the hill
& Stamford in the hollow

I see the oak agen the door
The wood agen the garden
I bade good bye she turned agen
With smiles my look rewarding

I wrote my better poems there
To beautys praise I owe it
The muses they get all the praise
But woman makes the poet

A womans is the dearest love
Theres nought on earth sincerer
The leisure upon beautys breast
Can any thing be dearer

The muses they are living things
& beauty ever dear
& though I worshiped stocks & stones
Twas woman every where

In loves delight my steps was led
I sung of beautys choice
I saw her in the books I read
& all was Mary Joyce

I saw her love in beautys face
I saw her in the rose
I saw her in the fairest flowers
In every weed that grows

Till Patty fell in beautys way
That dearer loves recall
& stood a flower in beautys way
The lily of them all