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I have a lovely mountain bower,
Where blooms a gentle Georgian flower;
She was my spear's accustomed prize,
The antelope hath not such eyes.
Now my sweet captive loves her lot,
What has a queen that she has not?
Let her but wish for shawls or pearls,
To bind her brow, to braid her curls;
And I from east to west would fly,
Ere she should ask and I deny.
But those rich merchants must be near,
Away, I cannot linger here;
The vulture hovers o'er his prey,
Come, my good steed—away!—away!
