Molly of the Mill

Let poets praise the flow'ry mead, The moss-clad hill, the dale; The shepherd piping on his reed, The maid with milking pail: The lark that soars on pinions high: Or sweetly purling rill, While I breathe forth a tender sigh For Molly of the Mill.

In vain to sing her charms I try. And all her beauties trace; Such brilliancy informs her eye, Such excellence her face; Her easy shape, engaging air, My breast with transports fill, No nymph so pleasing, or so fair As Molly of the Mill.

'Tis not her person charms alone, The beauties of her mind; Wit, sense, and sentiment, we own, In her are all combin'd; Such is the nymph who sways my heart, And makes my bosom thrill, Adorn'd by nature more than art, Sweet Molly of the Mill.