One Sunday to the village church
Both old and young were flowing:
Oh! the bells were ringing merrily,
And beaux with belles were going.
And Mister Trott was trotting there,
When Biddy Lowe so smart,
Just pass'd—and tho' she only walk'd,
Her eyes—ran through his heart.
Now Mister Trott began to leer,
And throw his eyes about;
But ah! he felt a pang within,
He fain would be without.

'For a suitor I might suit her well,
'And why should I not please?
'For though I may have silver locks,
'Iv'e gold beneath my keys.'
For o'er his head he'd sixty years,
And more if truth be told,
And, for the first time, now he thought
'Twas frightful to be old!
The service o'er, Tim walk'd away,
And o'er the fields did roam;
He sought her cot—and found it out,
But Biddy was at home!
Tim made a bow and made a leg,
And spoke with hesitation;
While Biddy frown'd upon his suit,
And smiled at his—relation!
But tho' so scornfully repuls'd,
And all his vows proved vain,
Tim Trott had lost his heart, and wish'd
To prove his loss—a-gain!

Miss Biddy met her ancient beau,
And said with cruel glee,
'Oh! Trott, though you're a little man,
'You seem to long for me!—
Tim stammer'd, hammer'd, hem'd and sigh'd—
He flutter'd like a leaf—
With piteous look he eye'd the maid,
But couldn't hide his grief.
'Tho' I'm a man of substance, ma'am,
'I'm like a shadow-elf;
'I've sigh'd and sigh'd until I am
'Like one beside myself!
Quoth she, and with a killing smile,
(Oh! most unkind retort)
'You know I've cut you, aye, for long,
'So now I'll cut you short!'
'Ah! make not of my size a laugh,
'I would my limbs were stronger,
'But tho' you never lov'd me, ma'am,
'Say, would you love me longer?'

But Biddy's heart was hard as stone,
Tim's tears were shed in vain,
And when she cried—'go, ugly man!'
He thought his beauty plain!
Quoth he: 'I go—farewell—farewell,
'I weep—for I'm resigned!
'I feel my heart that beat before—
'Left beating is behind!'