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I met you in my mountain dress,
And sandals wet with dew,
All unadorn'd, and yet I thought
That I was fair to you.
My lyre was often out of tune,
Its tones were rude and small,
Yet were they e'er so weak or rough,
You gladly heard them all.
But now how chang'd! for when I smile,
And bring my sweetest rhyme,
You coldly bid me 'go my way,
And come another time.'
For you must stay to 'copy off'
And polish what you wrote,
And try to soften if you can
My unharmonious note.
Even when I come, in all my charms,
To catch your fickle view,
You, starting, turn your back, and cry,
'The clock is striking two.'
Now what has two, or nine o'clock
To do with you and me?
And what delights you in your school,
I'm sure I cannot see.
