The Scornful Lady

Dress'd out in all her gay attire, Who sees but, seeing, must admire The nymph with all her cruel arts Bound on a cruise to capture hearts.

Aloft her silken streamers play, The ensigns of unbounded sway: For her the wretched victim burns, Yet she no love for love returns.

Young Jockey from the isle of Kent In chasing her a year had spent, And own'd at last no privateer Could ever yet compare with her.

Proud of the artillery of her eyes She would not own so poor a prize, But, disregarding force or prayer, She struck him dumb, and left him there.

Thus huntsmen of their prowess boast, Who, hunting on the Spanish coast, No deer at once by them is slain, But left to languish on the plain.

When first this heav'nly form I pass'd, She back'd her topsails to the mast— I saw there was no chance to fly, At once she bade me yield or die.

Amaz'd at such a strange attack I chang'd my course and hurried back, But such a fatal arrow met As pierc'd me deep, and pains me yet.

Ah, Celia, what a strange mistake To ruin just for ruin's sake; Thus to delude us in distress, And quit the prize you should possess.

Years may advance with silent pace And rob that form of every grace, And all your conquests be rapaid— With Teague O'Murphy, and his spade.