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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.
