This page has been validated.
(8)
The owls from the battlements cry,
hollow winds seem to murmur around.
O Mary! prepare thee to die!—
my blood it runs cold at the sound!
†✼✼†✼✼†✼✼†✼✼†✼✼✼†✼✼†✼✼†✼✼†✼✼†✼✼†
FAIR SUSANNAH.
Ask if yon damaſk roſe be ſweet,
that ſcents the ambient air;
Then ask each ſhepherd that you meet
if dear Suſannah's fair?
Say, will the Vulture quit his prey,
and warble thro' the grove?
Bid wanton linnets quit the ſpray,
then doubt thy ſhepherd's love:
The ſpoils of war let heroes ſhare,
let pride in ſplendor ſhine!
Ye bards, unenvy'd laurels wear,
be ſair Suſannah ſhine.
FINIS.
Falkirk—T. Johnston, Printer.
