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 | Poems on several subjects |  |
SONG XIX. The forlorn MAID.
Upon a morning clear and fair,
As I went forth to take the air,
I spy'd a lass in great despair,
Lamenting most severely.
As I went forth to take the air,
I spy'd a lass in great despair,
Lamenting most severely.
Alas! said she, I am forlorn;
To all the town I'm now a scorn;
I wish that I had ne'er been born,
Since I have lost my lover.
To all the town I'm now a scorn;
I wish that I had ne'er been born,
Since I have lost my lover.
He courted me both air and late,
And call'd me ay his bonny Kate;
But, oh! alas! my wretched fate;
I'm ruin'd quite for ever.
And call'd me ay his bonny Kate;
But, oh! alas! my wretched fate;
I'm ruin'd quite for ever.
Alas! woes me! I am wi' bairn;
And he is gone, left me forlorn;
Now he for me has no concern,
Altho' he promis'd fairly.
And he is gone, left me forlorn;
Now he for me has no concern,
Altho' he promis'd fairly.
His twinkling eyes, and his sweet breath,
Made me forget to dread sik skaith;
To wrang me I thought he'd be laith,
Yet my thoughts did deceive me.
Made me forget to dread sik skaith;
To wrang me I thought he'd be laith,
Yet my thoughts did deceive me.
43
He vow'd and swore, by heavens high,
By all the winged fowls that fly,
That he would marry me; and I
As eithly did believe him.
By all the winged fowls that fly,
That he would marry me; and I
As eithly did believe him.
He trysted me one evening fair,
Among the groves to take the air;
But soon he brought me in a snare;
Woes me that e'er I loo'd him.
Among the groves to take the air;
But soon he brought me in a snare;
Woes me that e'er I loo'd him.
Now I maun beg with this young thing;
To pleasure it, with grief I sing;
I tear my hair, my hands I wring,
For waeness that I loo'd him.
To pleasure it, with grief I sing;
I tear my hair, my hands I wring,
For waeness that I loo'd him.
My fortune now is cleanly broke,
By leaning to that feeble rock;
False man that gae me sik a stroke;
Sare mayst thou rue thy doings.
By leaning to that feeble rock;
False man that gae me sik a stroke;
Sare mayst thou rue thy doings.
You virgins, keep your chastitie;
To such as him no freedom gi',
Lest that you sing along with me,
Alas! that e'er I loo'd him,
To such as him no freedom gi',
Lest that you sing along with me,
Alas! that e'er I loo'd him,
| Poems on several subjects | |