To A Lady, Who Did Me The Honour To Call At My House Poem by Christian Milne

THAT ne'er-to-be-forgotten day
You came to see my cottage,
My honest Mate adores you since,
With fervor next to dotage.
He said, you could have done no more,
Had I been POPE or WALLER ;
He walk'd on tiptoe, rais'd his hat,
And thought he felt much taller:
Then 'gan to pick the tarry spots,
That glisten'd on his jacket,
And found the tailor much in fault,
Who did not neater make it.
'But stay,' quoth I, 'my honest friend,
'You must not slight your jerkin,
'Tho' you could dress yourself in silk,
'Tis not so fit to work in!
'And, take my word, I love you more
'In that blue frock and trouser,
'Than if you wore lac'd hat and cloaths,
'That won you 'How d'ye do, Sir.'
'Ne'er folks like us shew'd foolish pride,
'But worth and sense despis'd them,
'And justly threw them from the height
'To which such notice rais'd them.'
Now pardon, Ma'am, this silly tale;
I've often wish'd to drop it;
But when my pen begins to run,
I try in vain to stop it.