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To the water’s still murmurs,
 join’d all in connection
To raise in my heart
 the soft feelings of love.
The Miser’s cold heart
 is still bent on its treasure;
And honour is all
 the ambitious esteem;
But I feel the highest
 of all earthly pleasure
In the arms of young Jenny
 of sweet Aberdeen.

   With lovely, &c.

In spots thus retir’d,
 where Creation is breathing
The praise of its Maker
 in sonnets of love,
The joys that I felt
 in my bosom then heaving,
Were next to the joys
 that the Saints feel above!
The hue of her check
 is the rose in its blossom;
She’s swift as the roe,
 as she skips o'er the green;
Dull care flees away,
 when reclin'd on the bosom
Of Jenny, the flower
 of sweet Aberdeen.

   Of lovely, &c.