To the Tune of, Auld lang syne.
WHen flow’ry meadows deck the year,
And sporting lambkins play,
When spangl’d fields renew’d appear,
And musick wak’d the day;
Then did my Chloe leave her bower,
To hear my am’rous lay,
Warm’d by my love, she vow’d no pow’r
Shou’d lead her heart astray.
The warbling quires from ev’ry bough
Surround our couch in throngs,
And all their tuneful art bestow,
To give us change of songs:
Scenes of delight my soul possess’d,
I bless’d then hug’d my maid;
I rob’d the kisses from her breast,
Sweet as a Noon-day’s shade.
Joy so transporting never fails,
To fly away as air,
Another swain with her prevails,
To be as false as fair.
What can my fatal passion cure?
I’ll never woo again;
All her disdain I must endure,
Adoring her in vain.
– New Words by Different Hands.