S O N G X.

Tune, Gilderoy.


Now fields are deck'd with rural pride,
And rocks with echoes ring;
The purling brook does smoothly glide,
And birds melodious sing;
The pretty lamb, upon the plain,
Does frisk, and skip, and play,
And linnets warble through their throats,
Their sweet, melodious lay:


But what are flow'ry lawns to me,
Or sound-repeating rocks?
Or what the music of the groves,
Or slow, smooth gliding brooks?
Or what care I for pretty lambs,
That skip upon the plains,
While I am absent from the Maid,
Who all my joy contains?


Can field that's green, like Jenny please,
Or birds her wit express?
Or can those brooks, that smoothly glide,
Compare with her address?
O happy shall I be, when I
Shall clasp her in my arms!
Without her life's to me a pain;
I'm charmed with her charms!


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