To the Tune of, My Apron Deary.
AH Chloe! thou treasure, thou joy of my breast,
Since I parted from thee, I’m a stranger to rest,
I fly to the grove, there to languish and mourn,
There sigh for my charmer, and long to return.
The fields all around me are smiling and gay,
But they smile all in vain – my Chloe’s away:
The field and the grove can afford me no ease, –
But bring me my Chloe, a desart will please.
No virgin I see that my bosom alarms,
I’m cold to the fairest, tho’ glowing with charms,
In vain they attack me, and sparkle the eye;
These are not the looks of my Chloe, I cry.
These looks where bright love like the sun sits enthron’d,
And smiling diffuses his influence round,
‘Twas thus I first view’d thee, my charmer amaz’d;
Thus gaz’d thee with wonder, and lov’d while I gaz’d.
Then, then the dear fair one was still in my sight,
It was pleasure all day, it was rapture all night;
But now by hard fortune remov’d from my fair,
In secret to languish, a prey to despair.
But absence and torment abate not my flame,
My Chloe’s still charming, my passion the same;
O! would the preserve me a place in her breast,
Then absence would please me, for I would be blest.
– New Words by Different Hands.