Classic Poem

“Pretty Polly Cortelyou,
Mistress of the dairy,
Born a dainty little shrew,
Sprightly and contrary,

“Sweet of manner, neat in dress,
Buxom little charmer;
Who would have such loveliness
Wasted on a farmer!”

Built when only moor and wood
Edged the rustic byway,
Now her father's bouwerie stood
Fronting on the highway

Where, in silken revelry,
Plumes and powdered tresses,
Passed Manhattan's chivalry,
Swept their hearts' princèsses.

Rosy Polly Cortelyou
Kept the dasher turning,
Panting as the butter grew
Stiffer with her churning;

Frowning still on Harry Gray,
Merry spark of fashion,
Sipping buttermilk and whey
Just to cool his passion.

“Go!” said she, “thou face of brass;
Save thy coat of scarlet!
How should e'er a farmer lass
Wed a lazy varlet!”

“Cruel Polly! leave the churn!
Think me not a rake, dear.
Sure,” the gallant said, “I'd turn
Shepherd for your sake, dear.

“Nay, you doubt me? Can you ask
Proof I love you madly?
Set me any servile task;
Faith, I'll do it gladly.”

“Wilt thou then,” the maiden spoke,
“Bear, till I enlarge thee,
Milking-pails and dairy yoke
Wheresoe'er I charge thee?”

“Sweet, I'd bear them,” vowed the youth,
“Just to do thy pleasure,
Clear to Spain!—and back, forsooth,
Heaping full of treasure.”

Round his neck the dimpling miss
Bound the yoke, to tame him.
(If he tried to snatch a kiss,
Truly, do you blame him?)

Laughing at his helpless plight,
Led him from the dairy
(So a Jack-o'-lantern sprite,
So an antic fairy,

Threading bog or muddy shore,
Draws a luckless mortal),
Through the house, toward the door,
Opened wide the portal.

Then, that wicked little cheat,
Laughing still, to blind him,
Thrust him headlong to the street,
Snapped the lock behind him.

All Manhattan's brave array
Stopped and stared in wonder.
All Manhattan's gallants gay
Split their sides asunder.

There he stood in silken coat,
Rapier silver-hilted,
Snowy scarf about his throat,
Beaver bravely tilted,

Harry Gray, the ballroom's pride,
Yoke across his shoulders,
Brimming pails on either side,
Joy of all beholders.

Heartless Polly shrieked with mirth,
Screened behind the casement.
Open! open! kindly earth!
Cover his abasement!

Each of twenty youths, they say,
Solemn as a major,
Took his oath that Harry Gray
Did it on a wager.

Eight-and-forty ladies fair
(Can a man deceive them?)
Dropped their eyes and heard them swear—
Didn't quite believe them.

Gallants, heed! 'Twere well ye should,
Be they ne'er so loving,
Chain your hearts; to field and wood
Send them not a-roving.

Woman-craft in subtle toys
All your wit surpasses.
Let the canny country boys
Woo the farmer lasses!