Gang down the burn, my Meg, he cry’d,
Gang down the burn wi’ me.
Hout lad, gang firſt afore the Prieſt,
and then I ſe gang wi’ thee.
The Maid whom I adore.
The bird that hears her neſtlings cry,
and flies abroad for food.
Returns impatient thro’ the ſky,
to nurſe the callow brood:
The tender mother knows no joy,
but bodes a thouſand harms,
And ſickens for the darling boy,
when abſent from her arms.
Such fondneſs, with impatience join’d,
my faithful boſom fires;
Now forc’d to leave my fair behind,
the queen of my deſires:
The pow’rs of verſe too languid prove,
all ſimiles are vain,
To ſhew now ardently I love,
or to relieve my pain.
My foul’s with ardent love inſpir’d,
ſure ’tis a gift divine:
No lover ever was ſo fir’d
with love more pure than mine.
