Page:Cherry and the sloe.pdf/10

Rh Nought could my thrist appease, I wist I could not walk alone, I was so grievously o’er-gone, Thro’ drouth of my disease, Yet weakly as I might I rose, In darkness and in doubt, I stagger’d at the windle-straws, No token I was stout; Now sp’ritless and mightless I wrestle as I may, In anguish to languish And wend my weary way.

With sober pace approaching near, Where from the rock the river clear, Of which I spake before, Ran swiftly murmuring among The pebbles as it past along The flow’ry fringed shore; Me Pleasure and Desire provoke, Impatient to repair Between the river and the rock, Where Hope dwelt with Despair, On high then, I spy then, A Cherry tree there grows; Below too, did grow too, A bush of bitter Sloes.

The Cherries hung above my head, Like twinkling rubies round and red; So high upon the bank, Whose shadows in the river shew. As gayly glittering as they grew, In clusters ripe and rank; The boughs thro’ burden of their birth, Declining down their tops, Reflex of Phoebus off the Firth, New-coloured all their knops; With dancing and glancing,