Long had the fair one sat alone, Had none remain'd save only she;-- She by herself had been--if one Had not been left, for company. 'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue, Was tinge'd with health and manly toil;-- Cabbage he sow'd; and, when it grew, He always cut it off, to boil. Oft would he cry, "Delve, Delve the hole! And prune the tree, and trim the root! And stick the wig upon the pole, To scare the sparrows from the fruit!" A small, mute favourite, by day, Follow'd his step; where'er he wheels His barrow round the garden gay, A bob-tail cur is at his heels. Ah, man! the brute creation see! Thy constancy oft needs the spur! While lessons of fidelity Are found in every bob-tail cur. Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong, While Bobtail in his face would look, And mark'd his master troll the song,-- "Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!" For thus he sung:--while Cupid smile'd;-- Please'd that the Gard'ner own'd his dart, Which prune'd his passions, running wild, And grafted true-love on his heart. Maid of the Moor! his love return! True love ne'er tints the cheek with shame: When Gard'ners' hearts, like hot-beds, burn, A Cook may surely feed the flame. Ah! not averse from love was she; Tho' pure as Heaven's snowy flake; Both love'd: and tho' a Gard'ner he, He knew not what it was to _rake_. Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure: The mansion's crazy wainscots crack: No star appear'd:--and all the Moor, Like ev'ry other Moor,--was black. Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire, The lovely Molly Dumpling sat; Much did she fear, and much admire What Thomas Gard'ner could be at. List'ning, her hand supports her chin; But, ah! no foot is heard to stir: He comes not, from the garden, in; Nor he, nor little bobtail cur. They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee; Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass! And what's impossible can't be; And never, never, comes to pass! She paces thro' the hall antique, To call her Thomas from his toil; Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak; Because the hinges wanted oil. Thrice, on the threshold of the hall, She "Thomas!" cried, with many a sob; And thrice on Bobtail did she call, Exclaiming, sweetly,--"Bob! Bob! Bob!" Vain maid! a Gard'ner's corpse, 'tis said, In answers can but ill succeed; And dogs that hear when they are dead, Are very cunning Dogs indeed! Back thro' the hall she bent her way; All, all was solitude around! The candle shed a feeble ray,---- Tho' a large mould of four to th' pound. Full closely to the fire she drew; Adown her cheek a salt tear stole; When, lo! a coffin out there flew, And in her apron burnt a hole!