Ballads in Imitation of the Antient :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ireland, W. H. (1777-1835)

A Ballad, Of the poor and forlorn Lover.

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118

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The Lover's station being far inferior to that of his Mistress, excited her neglect, which gave rise to these complaining Lines.

119

No more let mirth my bosom swell,
But sadness mark each hour,
With me shall pining silence dwell,
For I'm love's blighted flow'r.

No more will sweet content be mine,
No more the joyous lay;
Sad shall my languid cheek recline,
And sighs tell forth the day.

120

Unpitied am I doom'd to breathe
My falt'ring love-sick tale:
Around my front I'll twine a wreath
Of Willow-leaves so pale.

Might I intreat of that soft hair,
One glossy ringlet sweet,
I'd guard it as love's relic rare;
Love should the present greet!

Frown not, ador'd, angelic maid,
At love the most refin'd;
Pitty the heart you have betray'd,
The urchin God is blind.

Cou'd I in secret breath a strain
To my fond soul's delight,
'Twould partly meliorate my pain
And cheer the gloom of night.

121

For though I lack both wealth and pow'r,
Nor boast a lineage great;
Gold is the phantom of an hour,
My mind is my Estate.

Riches and titles pass away
As shadows in a stream;
But Virtue, like the God of Day,
Still sheds it's glorious beam.

Then do not bid me pine in vain,
But pitying, let me prove
That lowliness can feel the pain,
And teach you how to love.