The American Songster, Song

How oft, beneath yon artless bow'r, Have I with Phoebe sat, And spent a sweet, a harmless hour, In gay, endearing chat!

Oft would the sportive wren alight, And chirp from vine to vine; Peace! little vagrant, thy delight Could not compare with mine.

While at the evening's mild decay, We've sought our much lov'd grove, The Robin's soft, melodious lay, Would harmonize our love.

Ah! Colin leave the flattering theme, Nor drop th' unmanly tear; Thy pleasures vanish like a dream, Since Phoebe's insincere.