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With grief she daily pin’d away,
No remedy her life could save;
And Tom return’d the very day
They laid his Nancy in the grave.
THE LILY FAIR.
Come, Clara, as the lily fair,
Blushing like the dew-kiss’d rose,
Yon murmuring rill shall charm your ear,
And Strephon sigh thee to repose.
What though, by persecuting fate,
The charms of lux'ry are denied,
The empty farce of servile state,
And all the purple train of pride;
Yet, if with me you seek the plain,
With me enjoy the rural cot,
A happy, though a humble swain,
Ye proud and great, I scorn your lot.
FINIS.
