The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mêlée. In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won! Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!
But away with remembrance, no more will I pine That others usurped for a time what was mine! There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me: Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; Once more by the side of the knight I love best Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his crest.
"Your Molly has never been false," she declares, "Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs; When I said that I would continue the same, And I gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name. When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you, Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew? To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd, For his trousers I washed, and his grog too I made.
"Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sall, In silence I stood your unkindness to hear And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. Why should Sall, or should Susan, than me be more prized? For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised; Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, Still your trousers I'll wash and your grog too I'll make."
Your Fanny was never false-hearted, And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette!
We spent en province all December, And I ne'er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat!
At night with that vile Lady Frances (Je faisois moi tapisserie) You danced every one of the dances, And never once thought of poor me! Mon pauvre petit coeur! what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set; And you gave, O mon Dieu! to revive her My beautiful vinegarette!