The Book of Scottish Song/Peggy, I must love thee
Peggy, I must love thee.
I.
[This is the name of a very old Scottish air. It has been attributed to Purcell, the English composer, but it is found in MS. music books long before his day. Both Ramsay and Robert Crawfurd wrote words to the tune, which appear in the Tea-Table Miscellany. We give Ramsay's first.]
As from a rock past all relief,
The shipwreck'd Colin spying
His native soil, o'ercome with grief,
Half sunk in waves, and dying:
With the next morning sun he spies
A ship, which gives unhop'd surprise;
New life springs up, he lifts his eyes
With joy, and waits her motion.
So when by her whom long I lov'd,
I scorn'd was, and deserted,
Low with despair my spirits mov'd,
To be for ever parted:
Thus droop'd I, till diviner grace
I found in Peggy's mind and face;
Ingratitude appear'd then base,
But virtue more engaging.
Then now since happily I've hit,
I'll have no more delaying;
Let beauty yield to manly wit,
We lose ourselves in staying:
I'll haste dull courtship to a close,
Since marriage can my fears oppose,
Why should we happy minutes lose,
Since, Peggy, I must love thee?
Men may be foolish, if they please,
And deem't a lover's duty,
To sigh, and sacrifice their ease,
Doting on a proud beauty;
Such was my case for many a year,
Still hope succeeding to my fear,
False Betty's charms now disappear,
Since Peggy's far outshine them.
II.
[Robert Crawfurd.]
Beneath a beech's grateful shade,
Young Colin lay complaining;
He sigh'd and seem'd to love a maid,
Without hopes of obtaining:
For thus the swain indulged his grief,
Though pity cannot move thee,
Though thy hard heart gives no relief,
Yet, Peggy, I must love thee,
Say, Peggy, what has Colin done,
That thus thou cruelly use him?
If love's a fault, 'tis that alone,
For which you should excuse him:
'Twas thy dear self first rais'd this flame,
This fire by which I languish;
'Tis thou alone can quench the same,
And cool its scorching anguish.
For thee I leave the sportive plain,
Where every maid invites me;
For thee, sole cause of all my pain,
For thee that only slights me:
This love that fires my faithful heart
By all but thee's commended,
Oh! would thou act so good a part,
My grief might soon be ended.
That beauteous breast, so soft to feel,
Seem'd tenderness all over,
Yet it defends thy heart like steel,
'Gainst thy despairing lover.
Alas! tho' it should ne'er relent,
Nor Colin's care e'er move thee,
Yet till life's latest breath is spent,
My Peggy, I must love thee.