Farmer Dobbin's Complaint

Three daughters I have, and as prettily made, As handsome as any you'll see; And lovers they count—but still I'm afraid They always will hang upon me.

In writing of letters and talking of love, They are foolishly spending their time; One gives them a ribbon, and one a new glove; And thus they are passing their prime.

These bucks of the town—with their elegant coats, I'm sick of their horses and chairs; They plunder my hay, and they pilfer my cats— Am I keeping a tavern my dears?

This courting and courting, and never concluding, Is nonsense—(I'm sorry to say) Your kissing and playing is rather intruding, Unless you will—take them away.