Tune, Rantin roaring Willie.
O MARY! thy graces and glances,
Thy smiles so inchantingly gay,
And thoughts so divinely harmonious,
Clear wit and good humour display.
But say not thoul’t imitate angels
Ought farrer, tho’ scarcely, ah me!
Can be found equalizing thy merit,
A match amongst mortals for thee.
Thy many fair beauties shed fires
May warm up ten thousand to love,
Who desparing, may fly to some other,
While I may despair, but ne’er rove.
What a mixture of sighing and joys
This distant adoring of thee,
Gives to a fond heart too aspiring,
Who loves in sad silence like me?
Thus looks the poor beggar on treasure,
And shipwreck’d on landskips on shore:
Be still more divine, and have pity;
I die soon as hope is no more.
For, MARY, my soul is thy captive,
Nor loves, nor expects, to be free;
Thy beauties are fetters delightful,
Thy slavery’s a pleasure to me.