FROM A MALTSTER.
My barley is fine, and good my kiln,
In making malt, none has more skill,
And though my horses oft are blind,
My love to you is not, you’ll find;
What, tho’ my granary is well fill’d,
As any maltster e’er beheld;
Yet, what is all this store to me,
Unless that I could purchase thee?
Come, then, and all my malt command,
I’ll put the staff into your hand,
My barley, every grain, be thine,
As you I’ve chose my Valentine.