A sturdy fellow, with a sunburnt face, <br />And thews and sinews of a giant mould; <br />A genial mind, that harboured nothing base,— <br />A pocket void of gold. <br /> <br />The rival’s years were fifty at the least— <br />Withered his skin, and wrinkled as a crone; <br />But day by day his worldly goods increased, <br />Till great his wealth had grown. <br /> <br />And she, the lady of this simple tale, <br />Was tall and straight, and beautiful to view; <br />Even a poet’s burning words would fail <br />To paint her roseate hue. <br /> <br />The suitors came, the old one and the young, <br />Each with fond words her fancy to allure. <br />For which of them should marriage bells be rung, <br />The rich one or the poor? <br /> <br />She liked the young one with his winning ways, <br />He seemed designed to be her future mate— <br />Besides, in novels and romantic plays <br />Love has a youthful gait. <br /> <br />But well she knew that poverty was hard, <br />And humble household cares not meant for her; <br />Nor cared she what the sentimental bard <br />Might warble or infer. <br /> <br />She made her choice, the wedding bells rang clear; <br />The aged bridegroom figured in the Times. <br />The young man, after some superfluous beer, <br />Went forth to foreign climes. <br /> <br />And this is all I ever chanced to know, <br />Told by my mate while digging on the Creek, <br />Who ended with his handsome face aglow, <br />And with a verse in Greek.<br /><br />Arthur Patchett Martin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-romance-in-the-rough/
