Betsy at the Oak

B E T S Y at the Oak.

Ye Prudes, who with censorious tongue,
Oft push an angry joke,
Prate on malicious, while my song
Hails Betsy at the Oak.

Cornettes, and Bucks, and Bloods, be gone,
Evaporate in smoke!
The charms can ne’er be know to you
Of Betsy at the Oak.

Her native innocent desires
She never learnt to cloak;
Nor can your fierce polluted fires
Touch Betsy at the Oak.

She will not give her lover pain,
And his fond passions cloak;
Averse to pride and high disdain,
Is Betsy at the Oak.

The doom of sad desponding love
She’ll tenderly revoke,
Constant and gentle as a dove
Is Betsy at the Oak.

She never, to torment my mind,
With cool indifference spoke;
But ever affable and kind
Was Betsy at the Oak.

For this her lover shall adore
Her charms, till death’s fell stroke
Cuts off, to be belov’d no more,
Sweet Betsy at the Oak.