Song III. the Sorrows of Mary

"Ye winds, to whom COLLIN complains, "In ditty's so sad, and so sweet, "Beleive me the Shepherd but feigns "He is wretched, to shew he has wit. No death the Deceiver designs, Let me who am slighted despair, Alas! he but dies in his lines, And gives himself that modish air.

My Wit of no poignance can boast, Nor my Person of ought that is fine, But COLLIN may find to his cost, A face that is fairer than mine. Then, then may he mourn a sad fate, And struggle in vain to be free; He'll wish when perhaps 'tis too late, He'd plac'd his affections on me.

The bark of the green Willow Tree, Shall part af my story record, And tell, tho forsaken I be, Poor MARY still lov'd and ador'd. Soon, then, I'll undeck my lov'd Crook, Return all the Flow'rets he gave, Then try in yon much favor'd Brook. To find for my Sorrows a Grave.