Song VIII. the Cottager

'Twas on a pleasant hill I stood, A Cottage in the vale I view'd To which I'd never been; Thither I went 'twas far from home, 'Twas growing late, the sun was down I knock'd to be let in.

A young and pretty Cottager: Came singing sprightly to the door, She look'd my soul's delight; While blushes heighten'd ev'ry grace, I silence broke and told my case, And begg'd to stay all night.

But she with meek and calm reply, Your suit I'm sorry to deny, For I am quite alone; I urg'd distress and innocence, But she reply'd, on no pretence, You must not—pray be gone.

'Twas overcast, a low'ry sky, It rain'd—the whist'ling wind blew high, When I to wander went; But kind compassion siez'd her soul, She could not bear to see me stroll, But call'd and gave consent.

She me enjoin'd to give a proof Of honer, whilst beneath her roof, Of virtue she could boast; I vow'd to act a noble part, And would have thank'd with all my heart, But found my heart was lost.

The Cottager, her pretty face, Adorn'd with ev'ry charming grace, I to the world prefer; And if she learns to love, like me, My glory day and night shall be, The pretty Cottager.