S O N G XVIII.

Tune, Bonny Jean.

I..

MY lovely Jeany is so fair,
Has charms all o'er, in ev'ry part,
Her ev'ry feature's grown a snare,
To catch and wound my bleeding heart!

II.

I'm like the bird that strives in vain,
And labours hard for to be freed;
The more I struggle with my pain,
My wounded heart the more does bleed!

III.

Although the gods her heart have made
Insensible of love or care,
Yet still I gaze, and hope for aid:
She's good; so I will not despair!

IV.

Come, tell me you who read the skies,
This mystery you must disclose,
Why, for the pleasure of their eyes,
Men forfeit all their sweet repose?

Next..


Back to top