BALLAD. (I lost my poor mother)

I lost my poor mother When only a child, And I fear'd such another, So gentle and mile, Was not to be found;

But I saw my mistake, For scarce was she gone, But I prov'd I had father and mother in one. And though, at this minute he makes my heart ach, There's not such another search all the world round.

I'd reach'd my teens fairly, As blithe as a bee, His care, late and early, Being all to please me; No one thing above ground

Was too good for his Rose; At wake or at fair I was dress'd out so gaily, lord, people would stare, And I say it again, though he's peevish, God knows, There's not such another, search all the world round.

But love, who, they tell us, Does many strange things, Makes all the world jealous, And mad—even kings, They say he can wound.

This love is the sore, Since Colin came here, This father so kind is a father severe; Yet still will I say, though he scolds more and more, There's not such another search all the world round.