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?