What lad or what lass without love has e'er been?--
Miss Page won my heart when I was but sixteen;
But no prospect appear'd, my fond wishes to crown;
Her ruffles were lac'd and she wore a silk gown.

While I issued forth in a more humble sphere,
With a coat you might see through--my best was threadbare;
Then what expectation to win a fair maid,
When the tongue or the dress never come to our aid?

But yet no great difference ought to oppose;
Her father made shoes, and by trade I made hose;
So that, if of true honour we judge not amiss,
My trade was, at least, a peg higher than his.

Besides, the shoe-maker had nothing to give;
Then should we unite, like two nothings must live.
Nay, should she attempt to collect all her store,
If she gave me herself, she could give me no more.

If we chanc'd, which was seldom, to pass in the street,
My head made a bow, but my eyes view'd my feet.
At her sight all my powers in confusion were found;
What was left of my heart sunk as low as the ground.

If at church on a Sunday I gave her a glance,
The instant she caught me my eyes turn'd ascance;
She might send a look, which by lovers alone
Is well understood; but, alas! mine was gone.

When day-light was over I often crept out,
At the season when lovers and cats prowl about.
Through a hole in the shutter I sometimes could see
The girl that I lov'd--whom I wish'd to love me.

Ten years I was shackled, but never durst speak,
Though I saw my dear charmer at least once a week;
When another succeeded, who spoke as he ought,
While I lost my fair one by courting in thought.