The purple heath we travers'd o'er,
And stopt at Barnby on the Moor;
Thence into honest Yorkshire ventur'd,
Which first we at fair Bawtry enter'd:
By three to Doncaster we came,
A town polite, of antient fame;
There will the Muse awhile unbend,
And there this tedious journal end,
Wrote, dearest Anne, at your commands,
And now it flies to kiss your hands.