And poets all are stupid
Who feign the god of Love is not
Cupidity, but Cupid.
Perchance 'tis well, for had I wed
That maid of dark-brown curls,
You had not been, or been, instead
Of boy, a pair of girls.
Now listen to me, Walter Smith;
Hie to yon plumber bold,
An thou would'st ease my dying pang,