I tie the garters twain, And while I knit the knot repeat this strain:  ’Three times a true-love’s knot I tie secure; Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure!’ With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.

As I was wont I trudged last market-day To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay.  I made my market long before ’twas night; My purse grew heavy and my basket light:  Straight to the ’pothecary’s shop I went, And in love-powder all my money spent.  Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers, When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs, These golden flies into his mug I’ll throw, And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.

  But hold! our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears: 
  O’er yonder stile, see, Lubberkin appears! 
  He comes, he comes!  Hobnelia’s not betrayed,
  Nor shall she, crowned with willow, die a maid. 
  He vows, he swears, he’ll give me a green gown: 
  Oh, dear!  I fall adown, adown, adown!

  FROM TRIVIA

  If clothed in black you tread the busy town,
  Or if distinguished by the reverend gown,
  Three trades avoid:  oft in the mingling press
  The barber’s apron soils the sable dress;
  Shun the perfumer’s touch with cautious eye,
  Nor let the baker’s step advance too nigh. 
  Ye walkers too that youthful colours wear,
  Three sullying trades avoid with equal care: 
  The little chimney-sweeper skulks along,
  And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng;
  When ‘Small-coal!’ murmurs in the hoarser throat,
  From smutty dangers guard thy threatened coat;
  The dust-man’s cart offends thy clothes and eyes,
  When through the street a cloud of ashes flies. 
  But whether black or lighter dyes are worn,
  The chandler’s basket, on his shoulder borne,
  With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way
  To shun the surly butcher’s greasy tray—­
  Butchers whose hands are dyed with blood’s foul stain,
  And always foremost in the hangman’s train.

  Let due civilities be strictly paid: 
  The wall surrender to the hooded maid,
  Nor let thy sturdy elbow’s hasty rage
  Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age;
  And when the porter bends beneath his load,
  And pants for breath, clear thou the crowded road;
  But, above all, the groping blind direct,
  And from the pressing throng the lame protect. 
  You’ll sometimes meet a fop, of nicest tread,
  Whose mantling peruke veils his empty head;
  At every step he dreads the wall to lose
  And risks, to save a coach, his red-heeled shoes: 
  Him, like the miller, pass with caution by,
  Lest from his shoulder clouds of powder fly. 
  But when the bully, with assuming pace,
  Cocks his broad hat, edged round with tarnished lace,
  Yield not the way; defy his strutting pride,
  And thrust him to the muddy kennel’s side;
  He never turns again nor dares oppose,
  But mutters coward curses as he goes.