The WOUNDED FARMER’S SON.
DRAW near each loyal lover,
To you I will discover.
My grief I cannot smother,
I’m bound in love’s sick chain.
For Cupid has ensnar’d me,
His cruel dart deceiv'd me,
And the title that he gave me,
Is the wounded Farmer’s Son.
How fatal was the morning?
When first I saw my darling!
Amongst the nymphs so charming,
Down by a myrtle grove.
While birds they join'd in chorus,
Their harmony melodious,
The bleating lambs a-sporting,
To please the maid I love.
I said. My lovely creature,
The sweetest work of nature,
She’s sweet in every feature,
My darling’s all divine.
Her sparkling eyes adorning,
Like twinkling stars in morning,
When Phœbus first give warning,
His beauteous beams do shine.
Could I obtain her favour.
Who’s won my heart for ever,
But in vain I fear my labour,
She being a Lady born;
But my birth it would degrade her,
But yet I'm bound to love her,
Because she is so clever,
I am but a Farmer’s Son.
As the swain was then complaining,
His darling was concealing,
⟨into⟩ a shade bewailing,
Near to a myrtle grove,
Where Cupid’s bow and quiver,
⟨it⟩ made her heart to shiver,
And like a wounded lover,
These words to him she said,
How can I thus be cruel,
To you my dearst jewel!
⟨I⟩ love you above all measure,
Since that my heart you’ve won;
There’s gold and silver bright,
For you my heart’s delight,
And before to morrow’s night,
I’ll embrace my Farmer’s Son.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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