To the Tune of, Peggy, I must love thee.
BEneath a beech’s grateful shade,
Young Colin lay complaining;
He sigh’d, and seem’d to love a maid,
Without hopes of obtaining:
For thus the swain indulg’d his grief,
Tho’ pity cannot move thee,
Tho’ thy hard heart gives no relief,
Yet Peggy I must love thee.
Say, Peggy, what has Colm done,
That thus you cruelly use him?
If love’s a fault, ‘tis that alone,
For which you should excuse him:
‘Twas thy dear felt first rais’d this flame,
This fire by which I languish;
‘Tis thou alone can quench the same,
And cool its scorching anguish.
For thee I leave the sportive plain,
Where every maid invites me;
For thee, sole cause of all my pain,
For thee that only slights me:
This love that fires my faithful heart
By all but thee’s commended.
Oh! would thou act so good a part,
My grief might soon be ended.
That beauteous breast so soft to feel,
Seem’d tenderness all over,
Yet it defends thy heart like steel,
‘Gainst thy despairing lover.
Alas! thọ’ it should ne’er relent,
Nor Colin’s care e’re move thee,
Yet till life’s latest breath is spent,
My Peggy, I must love thee.