Classic Poem

It's of a rich squire in Bristol doth dwell,
There are ladies of honour that love him well,
But all was in vain, in vain was said,
For he was in love with a charming milkmaid.

As the squire and his sister did sit in the hall,
And as they were talking to one and to all,
And as they were singing each other a song,
Pretty Betsy, the milkmaid, came tripping along.

Do you want any milk? pretty Betsy did say,
O yes, said the squire; step in, pretty maid.
It is you, fair body, that I do adore,
Was there ever a body so wounded before?

O, hold your tongue, squire, and let me go free,
Do not make your game on my poverty;
There are ladies of honour more fitter for you,
Then I, a poor milkmaid, brought up from the cows.

A ring from his finger he instantly drew,
And right in the middle he broke it in two;
And half he gave to her, as I have been told,

And they both went a walking to Blackberry Fold.

O Betsy, O Betsy, let me have my will,
So constant a squire I'll prove to you still;
And if you deny me, in this open field,
Why, the first time I'll force, and make you to yield.

With hugging and struggling, poor Betsy got free,
Saying, you never shall have your will of me;
I'll protect my own virtue, as I would my life,
And drew from her bosom a large dagger knife.

Then with her own weapon she run him quite through,
And home to her master like lightning she flew,
Saying, O, my dear master, with tears in her eyes,
I have wounded the squire, and I'm afraid dead he lies.

The coach was got ready, the squire brought home,
The doctor was sent for to heal up the wound,
Poor Betsy was sent for--the gay maiden fair--
Who wounded the squire, drove his heart in a snare.

The parson was sent for, this couple to wed,
And she did enjoy the sweet marriage bed;

It's better to be honest if ever so poor,
For he's made her his lady instead of his whore.