Sally of the Mead

One morn when nymphs and swains were gay And danc'd upon the green, From mirth poor Jemmy fled away To mourn his lot unseen— In tears the am'rous Boy complains Close by the murm'ring Tweed, The sad, sad burthen of his strains Was Sally of the Mead. My Sally did each nymph surpass Who trips the flow'ry plain, Once she was thought the loveliest lass, And I the happiest swain— To please her was my sole employ, To her I tun'd my reed, And, morn and eve, my only joy Was Sally of the Mead. While yet the morn was clad in grey I rose to court her love, Thro' flow'ry fields I took my way And then her garland wove— Tho' Rose and Lily both were there To deck her charming head, That was less sweet, and this less fair Than Sally of the Mead. Now she no more shall glad my eyes, No more my song inspire, From me the faithless fair one flies To bless the richer 'Squire— Yet may her heart know nought but joy, Nor e'er repent this deed— Jemmy can lay him down—and die For Sally of the Mead.