AS sound as a nut o'er the plain,
I of late whistled chuck full of glee,
A stranger to sorrow and pain,
As happy as happy could be.
As plump as a partridge I grew,
My heart being lighter than cork;
My slumbers were calmer than dew,
My body was fatter than pork.
Thus happy, I hop'd I should pass
Slick as grease down the current of time;
But pleasures are brittle as glass,
Although as a fiddle they're fine.
Jemima, the pride of the vale,
Like a top nimbly danc'd o'er the plains;
With envy the lasses were pale,
With wonder stood gazing the swains.
She smil'd like a basket of chips,
As tall as a may-pole her size—
As sweet as molasses her lips—
As bright as a button her eyes.
Admiring, I gaz'd on her charm,
My peace that would trouble so soon,
And thought not of danger nor harm,
Any more than the man in the moon.
But now to my sorrow I find
Her heart is as hard as a brick,
To my passion forever unkind,
Though of love I am full as a tick.
I sought her affection to win,
In hope of obtaining relief;
Till I like a hatchet grew thin,
And she, like a haddock, grew deaf.
I late was as fat as a doe,
And playful and spry as a cat;
But now I am as dull as a hoe,
And as lean and as weak as a rat.
Unless the unpitying fates
With passion as ardent will cram her,
As certain as death or as rates,
I soon shall be dead as a hammer.