3
And when we thought the flats would bite,
The word was—York, you're wanted.
A maiden lady, you must know,
Just sixty-three years old, Sir,
There fell in love with my sweet face,
And I with ⟨her⟩ sweet gold, Sir.
She said, the little god of love
Her tender bosom haunted,—
Dear Sir, I almost blush to own,
But. Mr York⟨,⟩ you're wanted.
In wedlock's joys, you need not doubt,
Most happily I roll'd Sir,
And how we lov'd, or how we fought,
Shall never now be told, Sir;
For Mr Death stept in one day,
And swift his dart he planted,
I wip'd my eyes, and thank'd my stars
'Twas Mrs York he wanted.
So ladies pray not guard your hearts,
A secret while I tell, O;
A widower with half a plum
Must needs be a rich fellow.
With fifty thousand pounds, I think,
I ought not to be daunted;
Some lovely girl, I hope, ere long,
Will say, Sweet York, you're wanted.
