Peggy

Once more I'll tune the vocal shell, To hills and dales my passion tell, A flame which time can never quell That burns for thee, my Peggy: Yet guittar bards the lyre shall hit, Or say what subject is more fit, Than to record the sparkling wit And bloom of lovely Peggy.

The sun first rising in the morn, That paints the dew-bespangled thorn, Does not so much the day adorn, As does my lovely Peggy: And when in Thetis' lap to rest, He streaks with gold the ruddy west, She's not so beauteous as undrest Appears my lovely Peggy.

When Zephyr on the vi'let blows, Or breathes upon the damask rose, He does not half the sweets disclose As does my lovely Peggy: I stole a kiss the other day, And trust me, nought but truth I say, The fragrance of the blooming May Is not so sweet as Peggy.

Were she array'd in rustic weed, With her the bleating flocks I'd feed, And pipe upon the oaten reed, To please my lovely Peggy. With her a cottage would delight, All's happy when she's in my sight; But when she's gone, it's endless night— All's dark without my Peggy!

While bees from flower to flower shall rove, And linnets warble thro' the grove, Or stately swans the rivers love, So long shall I love Peggy: And when death with his pointed dart Shall strike the blow that rives my heart, My words shall be, when I depart, " Adieu, my lovely Peggy!"