Dear Doctor of St Mary's,
In the hundred of 'Bergavenny,
I've seen such a lass,
With a shape and a face,
As never was match'd by any.

Such wit, such bloom, and such beauty,
Has this girl of Ponty-Pool, Sir,
With eyes that would make
The toughest heart ache,
And the wisest man a fool, Sir.

At our fair t' other day she appear'd, Sir,
And the Welshmen all flock'd and view'd her;
And all of them said,
She was fit t' have been made
A wife for Owen Tudor.

They would ne'er have been tired of gazing,
And so much her charms did please, Sir,
That all of them sat
Till their ale grew flat,
And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir.

How happy the lord of the manor,
That shall be of her possest, Sir;
For all must agree,
Who my Harriet shall see,
She's a Harriet of the best, Sir.

Then pray make a ballad about her;
We know you have wit if you'd show it,
Then don't be ashamed,
You can never be blamed,—
For a prophet is often a poet!

But why don't you make one yourself, then?
I suppose I by you shall be told, Sir,
This beautiful piece
Of Eve's flesh is my niece—
And, besides, she's but five years old, Sir!

But tho', my dear friend, she's no older,
In her face it may plainly be seen, Sir,
That this angel at five,
Will, if she's alive,
Be a goddess at fifteen, Sir.