Song LXXIX. Sally

My Sally is fair as the flow'rs, Which the face of the vallies adorn; She is sweet as the rose after show'rs, And brushing, and mild as the morn.

In her carriage, whenever she moves, Such ease and such elegance shine, That surely the graces and loves, Have conspir'd to make her divine,

But shepherds, ah! great is my pain, Her breast is a stranger to love, My vows she rejects with disdain, No entreaties the virgin can move,

When I meet the fair nymph in the grove, And tell her how hard is my lot, She will not give ear to my pain, But hastens away to her cot.

Then whither, ah tell! shall I rove? Or where, shall I seek for relief. I'll make my sad plaints to the groves, And the hills shall reecho my grief.

But still with fond hopes I am blest, Methinks she will pity my state; Then Sally, speak peace to my breast, And pity before 'tis too late.