Sweet maid, your name I dream of incessantly,
For, like your voice, it sounds very pleasantly,
Molli et canora voce dulcis,
Nomine dulcis es usque molli.
It has a charming old-fashioned smack to it,
Beau Brummell's age—it carries one back to it,
Powder and patch, and rustic maiden,
Name with the scent of the hayfields laden.
Then English maid was sweet as a maid may be,
This age has changed her, made her less staid, may be,
'Mongst other follies now it's taught her
How to become a "revolting daughter."
Poor blind revolting daughter! I pity her—
You're just as clever, probably prettier.
In sweet content maid's sphere adorning,
Yellow-Asterical problems scorning.
May these be "fandi mollia tempora,"
Your smile can make me proud as an emperor,
But swift my cares, should you be frowning,
I'll in deep waters (and strong) be drowning
Accept my ode! Don't "think it too odious,"
Sweet maid in name and voice so melodious,
Molli et canora voce dulcis,
Nomine dulcis es usque molli.
Clearly not the Leader of the Flock.—Of course, the reverend gentleman cannot be considered as a shepherd as long as his name is Head-lam.