The Hen-Peckt Carter Poem by James Wilson Claudero

Come here, brother Carters, adhere to my plan,
Sling your whips on your shoulders, and sing my Joan;
She's handsome and witty, the flow'r of our land,
To cross her were pity my charming Joan.
I yield her the breeches, am no longer man,
This favour too small for the sake of Joan;
I scour her the kail-pot and the parridge-pan,
And I tickle the fancy of charming Joan.
The bargains I make too shall no longer stand,
If they're disapprov'd by my charming Joan;
Each hair of her fud is the length of a span,
What fud can compare with the fud of Joan?
May my loaded cart sink deep in the sand,
If e'er I forsake the charmer Joan;
To pleasure her always I'll do what I can,
At evening and morning I'll humour Joan.
Nor shall any hussy my passion trepan,
For I am devoted to lovely Joan;
Then farewell, ye carters, my life's but a span,
And I'll spend it all in caressing Joan.
Ye critics, forbear my verses to scan,
The numbers unequal that chime my Joan;
For love warms the fancy and leads on the van,
When the carter attempts the praise of Joan.