Poll of Prestbury

On a rural village green, Where the rustic sports are seen, When the lads and lasses play, At the close of summer's day; There young William chanc'd to see, Pretty Poll of Prestbury.

If she tripp'd the turf along, If she warbl'd out a song, William seem'd to shew surprize, In his love-enraptur'd eyes; Said, how happy he cou'd be, With sweet Poll of Prestbury.

Oft he fidl'd near her side, Asking her to be his bride; She wou'd turn her head away, Telling him, she'd nought to say; William cry'd, ah! turn to me, Pretty Poll of Prestbury.

Bashfully she rais'd her head, And these words, in pity said, " William, you are come too late; " To be Allen's is my fate." Cruel fate, (replied he,) Adieu, sweet Poll, of Prestbury.

Thou wert once, my hope and pride, All the world was nought beside; Now each hope is fled away, Leaving me to love a prey, To pine, to weep, to think on thee, My pretty Poll of Prestbury.