Song—rosina

When bidden to the wake or fair, The joy of each free-hearted swain, Till Phoebe promis'd to be there, I loiter'd last of all the train. If chance some fairing caught my eye,— The ribbon gay, or silken glove! With eager haste I ran to buy, For what is gold compar'd to love? My poesy on her bosom placed, Could Harry's sweeter scents exhale; Her auburn locks my ribbon grac'd, And flutter'd in the wanton gale. With scorn she hears me now complain, Nor can my rustic presents move: Her heart prefers a richer swain, And gold, alas! has banished love