Kitty Fell

The courtly bard, in verse sublime,
May praise the toasted Belle;
A country maid (in careless rhyme)
I sing—my Kitty Fell!

When larks forsake the flow'ry plain,
And Love's sweet numbers swell,
My pipe shall join their morning strain,
In praise of Kitty Fell.

Where woodbines twist their fragrant shade,
And noontide beams repel,
I'll rest me on the tufted mead,
And sing of Kitty Fell.

When moon-beams dance among the boughs
That lodge sweet Philomel,
I'll pour, with her, my tuneful vows,
And pant for Kitty Fell.

The pale-faced pedant burns his books;
The sage forsakes his cell:
The soldier smooths his martial looks,
And sighs for Kitty Fell.

Were mine, ye great, your envy'd lot,
In gilded courts to dwell,
I'd leave them for a lonely cot
With Love and Kitty Fell.