Page:Keys of love (2).pdf/6

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The WOUNDED FARMER’S SON.

To its own proper Tune.

near each loyal lover,

To you I will dicover,

My grief I cannot mother,

I'm bound in love-ick chains,

For Cupid has ennar’d me,

His cruel dart's deceiv'd me;

And the title that he gave me,

Is the wounded Farmer's Son.

How fatal was the morning,

When firt I aw my darling,

Amongt the nymphs o charming,

Down by a myrtle grove,

While the birds they join'd in chorus,

Their harmony melodious,

The bleating lambs a-porting,

To pleae the maid I love.

I aid my lovely creature,

The weetet work of nature,

She's weat in every feature,

My darling's all divine.

Her parkling eyes adorning,

Like twinkling tars in morning,

When Phœbus firt gave warning,

His beauteous beams do hine.