To the Tune of, Rothes’s Lament; or, Pinky-house.
AS Silvia in a forest lay
To vent her woe alone;
Her swain Sylvander came that way,
And heard her dying moan.
Ah! is my love (she said) to you
So worthless and so vain:
Why is your wonted fondness now
Converted to disdain?
You vow’d the light should darkness turn,
E‘er you’d exchange your love;
In shades now may creation mourn,
Since you unfaithful prove.
Was it for this I credit gave
To ev’ry oath you swore?
But ah! it seems they most deceive,
Who most our charms adore.
‘Tis plain your drift was all deceit,
The practice of mankind:
Alas! I see it but too late,
My love had made me blind.
For you, delighted I could die:
But oh! with grief I’m fill’d,
To think that credulous constant I
Should by your self be kill’d.
This said – all breathless, sick and pale,
Her head upon her hand,
She found her vital spirits fail,
And senses at a stand.
Sylvander then began to melt:
But ere the word was given,
The heavy hand of death she felt,
And sigh’d her soul to heaven.
– New Words by Different Hands.