Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I’ll tell how Peggy grievęs me,
Tho’ thus I languish, thus complain,
Alas! she ne’er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded never move her;
At the bonny bush aboon Traquair,
‘Twas there I first did love her.
That day she smil’d, and made me glad,
No maid seem’d ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.
I try’d to sooth my am’rous flame,
In words that I thought tender;
If more there pass’d, I’m not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.
Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e’er we meet, she shews disdain,
She looks as ne’er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloom’d fair in May,
Its sweets I’ll ay remember;
But now her frowns make it decay,
It fades as in December.
Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender,
I’ll leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely Wilds I’ll wander.
– New Words by Different Hands.