Crazy Luke

Sweet gentle friends, whole bosoms flow, With kindness at the voice of woe; Tho' ruffled by the tale I tell, It pity asks—I love too well.

Maidens, as soft as ye are fair, With flow'rets deck my true love's hair, Co, weave them artfully and tell! That Luke has lov'd her long and well.

Her eyes are vi'lets mildest blue, Her lips are cherries steep'd in dew; Young roses in her dimples dwell; And poor Luke loves her much too well.

Her bosom, hills of dear delight, Are lillies of the purest white; Her breath is from the cowslip's bell: She's all I wish—I love her well.

Proffessors of sleek plenty's store, Bang not on Luke your angry door: Open it wide, and hear him tell How he doth love a maiden well.

Fair was Luke's morn, and pleasures flow Bright as the silver drops of dew: Till love bewitch'd him with his spell; Since then, Luke's craz'd by loving well.

Alas! poor heart, thou once wast gay, Dancing in the balm of May! Why lov'st thou ev'ry lonely dell? Because, poor heart, thou lov'st too well.

Give Luke a little straw for bed, For sadly aches his shatter'd head, His head doth ache, his heart doth swell, Because poor Luke loves much too well.

O, all ye gracious pow'rs above, Whose bosoms glow with heav'nly love! While here poor helpless mortals dwell, May none, like Luke, love half so well.