I'd Rather Be Excus'd

Returning from the sair one eve, Across yon verdant plain, Young Harry said he'd see me home; A tight and comely swain: He beg'd I wou'd a sairing take, And wou'd not be refus'd; Then ask'd a kiss, I blush'd and cry'd, I'd rather be excus'd.

You're coy, said he, my pretty maid, I mean no harm, I swear, Long time I have in secret sigh'd, For you, my charming fair: But if my tenderness offend, And if my love's refus'd, I'll leave you; what alone? I cry'd, I'd rather be excus'd.

He press'd my hand, and on we walk'd, He warmly urg'd his suit; But still to all he said I was Most obstinately mute: At length got home, he angry cry'd, My fondness is abus'd, Then die a maid—indeed, says I, I'd ra ther be excus'd.