And trembled, lest her steps should go,
Incautious, near the Mistletoe.
Now Hodge, a youth of rustic grace
With form athletic; manly face;
On Mistress Homespun turn’d his eye
And breath’d a soul-declaring sigh!
Old Homespun, mark’d his list’ning Fair
And nestled in his wicker chair;
Hodge swore, she might his heart command—
The pipe was dropp’d from Homespun’s hand!