 | Rhapsodies |  |
105
WILLY, THE FORSAKEN SWAIN.
Far, far from the gay busy throng,
Where fashion and folly now dwell,
Where virtue is deem'd an old song,
And the pleasures of life bear the belle—
Where fashion and folly now dwell,
Where virtue is deem'd an old song,
And the pleasures of life bear the belle—
There liv'd a young maiden, they say,
Who charm'd all the swains of the grove;
Far sweeter than flow'rets of May,
And fair as the mother of Love.
Who charm'd all the swains of the grove;
Far sweeter than flow'rets of May,
And fair as the mother of Love.
One eve, as the villagers met,
Beneath the cool shade, to regale,
Each vaunted his Sue and his Bet,
While brisk went the cup of brown ale.
Beneath the cool shade, to regale,
Each vaunted his Sue and his Bet,
While brisk went the cup of brown ale.
But Willy all pensively sat;
He liv'd but on Marian's smile,
Nor heeded their ale or their chat,
These could not the lover beguile.
He liv'd but on Marian's smile,
Nor heeded their ale or their chat,
These could not the lover beguile.
106
His heart, honest swain! felt a charm,
Nor knew he to stifle its rage;
Her shape, her eyes gave the alarm,
Ah! who could the torrent assuage?
Nor knew he to stifle its rage;
Her shape, her eyes gave the alarm,
Ah! who could the torrent assuage?
But, silly young swain! hadst thou known
The frailty of all womankind,
Thou would'st not have call'd her thine own,
Or suffer'd one pang in thy mind.
The frailty of all womankind,
Thou would'st not have call'd her thine own,
Or suffer'd one pang in thy mind.
For know that lov'd Marian so bright,
As other young maidens will do,
Met blithsome young Colin that night,
As, Willy, thou'st reason to rue.
As other young maidens will do,
Met blithsome young Colin that night,
As, Willy, thou'st reason to rue.
She plighted her faith and her love,
Nor heeded the pangs of the clown;
They could not false Marian move,
Who left him to hang or to drown.
Nor heeded the pangs of the clown;
They could not false Marian move,
Who left him to hang or to drown.
And now, ye chaste swains of the grove!
Who pipe and who carol your joys,
Be cautious, nor trifle with love,
For the sex are but slippery toys.
Who pipe and who carol your joys,
Be cautious, nor trifle with love,
For the sex are but slippery toys.
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