Page:Broom of Cowden-knows.pdf/7

 Now hold your tongue you cruel man,

For if you ſent letters I never got one,

If the fault be great, love, 'tis not mine,

So don't ſpeak ſo hard of poor woman-kind.

H! grieve with me, for I have loſt,

What to my ſoul is dear;

In meagre black deſpair I'm toſt,

And in my hot love paſſion croſt,

I now a ghoſt appear.

Now o’er the mead where flowers grow,

And field a fragrant ſmell,

Alone I penſive wandering go,

And look a melancholy woe,

And ſigh for cruel Nell.

Her beauteous face, her iv’ry neck,

Her moulding boſom round,

Raiſe ſuch deſire in me, e-ſeck;

I fear at laſt my heart will break.

Behold in tears I’m drown’d.

But then her ſhape ’tis ſuch a one,

That I could almoſt ſpan,

But oh! ſhe’s gone, and I'm undone!

And oh! alas! ſure as a gun,

I am a dying man.

Ah! what a taper leg has ſhe,

And ah! her ſnowy thighs;

And garter’d too above the knee,

'Tis true (if you’ll but believe me)

Or elſe I tell a lye.