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Now the end of my song’s drawing near,
I'll tell ye———but that’s nothing new,———
Now all my ambition’s to try,
And do what I can to draw you:
In which if I do but succeed
And my efforts beguile you of pain,
I entreat you’ll not wait to be ask'd,
To come often and see me again
Fal de ral, &c.
WHEN WILLIAM AT EVE.
When William at eve meets me down at the stile
How sweet is the Nightingale’s song
Of the days I forgot all my labour and toil
Whilst the moon plays yon branches among
By her beams without I hear him complain
And beleive every word of his song
You know not how sweet ’tis to love the dear swain
Whilst the Moon plays yon branches among
F I N I S.
