The Lover Poem by William Hutton

Now ponder well, ye fair ones dear,
And eke ye bards also,
'The gallant Lady's fall is here,'
Mark well her overthrow.

Poor Thomas, from fair Dolly's view,
So many wounds has got,
His heart was pepper'd through and through,
As if 'twas with small shot.

To all the world he would impart
His love was not a vapour;
Her name being written on his heart
He'd write it too on paper.

Firmly resolv'd, his pen he takes;
Solicits aid sublime:
Then crams himself into a jakes,
To try his hand at rhyme.

Let Dolly and your pen alone,
Or else you 'll make a din;
For noisome tallow's ever known
To keep the candle in.

Of verse deliver'd, not of love;
Pleas'd with his offspring dear,
Resolv'd it through the world should rove;
A Poet he'll appear.

But how could this poor author live,
Counting without his host?
He could not sell, nor lend, nor give--
Then said--'It sha'n't be lost.

Though she's unkind, I'll never drown,
Nor dangle in a rope.'
He pinn'd it to the roast meat down,
Converting verse to sop.

Then sorrowful that verse's end is,
Which can't procure a wife;
Though holding what we all contend is
The grand support of life.

The beef digested--Thomas took
What guarded fat and lean
To where you hate to smell or look,
And ev'ry part made clean.

Thus Dolly, who possess'd the heart,
Twelve inches sunk her head,
By dropping in that dreadful part
We never wish to tread.

Ye fair, be warn'd by Dolly's fate,
Who, 'stead of being married,
Was doom'd to a degraded state--
Where she was born was buried.