Classic Poem

Are you bewitched? Or don't you care
To stay where I may linger near ye?
Am I less welcome than the air
Of chill Illyria?

O Cynthia, are you then so keen
For him that you prefer the slow life
Of shipboard? (You know whom I mean —
The lying lowlife!)

Can you endure the wintry snows,
The ship's hard couch, and kindred trouble?
I'd like to have each storm that blows
In fury double!

For then you'd have to stay, my pet;
No ship could loose the straining tether.
Yet — if you go, I hope you'll get
Some dreadful weather.

I shall be standing at the pier,
The gentle author of these verses,
Shaking my fists at you, my dear,
And cussing curses.

Yet, most perfidious, most untrue,
You coyest of this flirty, coy age,
I hope you'll have — I truly do —
A lovely voyage.

And I shall ask of every tar
Where any one has seen or met you;
North, East — I don't care where you are —
Some day I'll get you!