ONE April morn, when from the sea
Phœbus was just appearing,
Damon and Celia young and gay,
Long settled love endearing,
Met in a grove, to vent their spleen
On parents unrelenting;
He bred of Tory-race had been,
She of the tribe dissenting.
Celia, whose eyes outshone the God
Newly the hills adorning,
Told him, mamma would be stark mad,
She missing prayers that morning;
Damon, his arms about her waist
Swore, tho’ nought should them sunder,
Shou’d my rough dad know how I’m blest,
‘Twou’d make him roar like thunder.
Great ones made by ambition blind,
By faction still support it,
Or where vile money taints the mind,
They for convenience court it:
But mighty love, that scorns to shew
Party should raise his glory,
Swears he’ll exalt a vassal true,
Let it be whig or tory.