Classic Poem

A

Tis Betsy! the joy of the plain;
Shepherds, stand not thus idly to gaze;
Lay your lips to the pipe or the flute,
Tune the best of your songs to her praise.

B

To Betsy, the joy of the plain,
Our songs should with pleasure be shewn,
But who, that has heard the sweet maid
Will venture a note of his own?

A

Leave lottering ye Nymphs in the shade,
And train up your gay summer bowers!
Full handfuls of roses we'll bring,
We'll dress her all over with flowers!

C

Stern Winter will ravage the mead,
And these bowers shall be pleasant no more,
The roses oer-blown must soon fall,
And no season their sweetness restore.

But the sunshine that laughs on her brow
Unclouded shall ever remain;
Ease, Wit, and the Graces reside,
With Betsy the joy of the plain.