Page:Bessy Bell & Mary Gray.pdf/7

7 Forgive me, ye maids of sweet ,

My heart is we her that's awa.

O love thou'rt a dear fleeting pleasure;

The sweetest we mortals here know;

But soon is thy heav'n, bright beaming,

O'ercast with the darkness of wo.

As the moon, on the oft-changing ocean,

Delights the lone mariner's eye,

Till red rush the storms of the desert,

And dark billows tumble on high.



