This faid -all breathless, fick and pale, Her head upon her hand, She found her vital spirits fail, And fenfes at a stand. SYLVANDER then began to melt; But e'er the word was given, The heavy hand of death fhe felt, And figh'd her foul to Heaven. PEGGY, I must love thee. S from a rock past all relief, The shipwreckt COLIN spying So when by her whom long I lov'd, Thus droopt I, till diviner grace Then now fince happily I've hit, We lose ourselves in staying: I'll hafte dull courtship to a close, Men may be foolish, if they please, B Same Tune. ENEATH a beech's grateful shade Young COLIN lay complaining; He figh'd, and feem'd to love a maid, Without hopes of obtaining : For thus the fwain indulg'd his grief, Tho' pity cannot move thee, Tho' thy hard heart gives no relief, Yet, PEGGY, I must love thee. Say, PEGGY, what has COLIN done, That thus you cruelly use him? If love's a fault, 'tis that alone For which you should excuse him! 'Twas thy dear self first rais'd this flame, This fire by which I languish; 'Tis thou alone can quench the fame, And cool its scorching anguish. For thee I leave the sportive plain, That beauteous breaft fo foft to feel, Nor COLIN'S care e'er move thee, Polwart on the Green. T Polwart on the green, AT If you'll meet me the morn, To dance about the thorn, A lover and a lad complete, Let dorty dames say Na, As lang as e'er they please, But I will frankly fhaw my mind, At Polwart on the green, Amang the new-mawn hay, We'll pass the heartsome day. Same Tune. HO' beauty, like the rose, TH That smiles on Polwart green, In various colours shows, As 'tis by fancy feen: Yet all its diff'rent glories ly United in thy face, And virtue, like the fun on high, Gives rays to every grace. So charming is her air, So fmooth, fo calm her mind, Each motion feems affign'd: As if for wings they stole the ray She darteth from her eye, Kind, am'rous CUPIDS. while With tuneful voice she fings, And wave their balmy wings: THE PEATY'S Mill. HE lafs of PEATY'S mill, In spite of all my skill, Bare-headed on the green, Her arms, white, round, and smooth, Breasts rifing in their dawn, To age it would give youth, To prefs 'em with his hand : When I fuch sweetness fand Without the help of art, Like flowers which grace the wild, She did her fweets impart, Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. |