THE American Mock-Bird, OR SONGSTER's DELIGHT, SONG CXCIII

Since we went out a Maying, too late can I find, Young Harry has run Day and Night in my Mind; He's grown so bewitching as never before: For I find that I love him each Time more and more. For I find that I love him each Time more and more.

Each Morning his Face with what Pleasure I see, Not my own at the Glass is so handsome to me: I am so vex'd I cou'd cry, when his Visit is o'er, Nor help, if I would, but must love more and more, Nor help, if I would, &c.

He'd have me to sing to him all the Day long, And says mine's as sweet as the Nightingale's Song; Such Praises as these I had never before, I'm sure that he loves me, tho' him I love more. I'm sure that he loves me, &c.

When my Mother was gone, with Love in his Look, He begg'd for one Kiss, but how many he took! I ask'd why so sice, who was ne'er so before? He blush'd, and then promis'd to do so no more. He blush'd, and then promis'd, &c.

How I wish'd the dear Shepherd, for Life, was all mine! I shou'd have no Occasion to Chide or to Pine; Then Harry my Lips may with Kisses run o'er, And I'll try, if it can be, to love him still more; And I'll try, if it can be, to love him still more.