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What beauties does Flora disclose? How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed? Yer Mary’s still sweeter than those; Both nature and fancy exceed, No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Not all the gay flow’rs of the field, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, Such beactybeauty [sic] and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant ev’ry bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let as see how the primroses spring; We’ll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather’d folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day? Does Mary not tend a few sheep? Do they never carelessly stray. While happily she lies asleep? Tweed’s murmurs should lull her to rest, Kind nature indulging my bliss, To ease the soft pains of my breast, I’d steal an ambrosial-kiss.