Classic Poem

SYMON .

O COLIN ! how dull is 't to be,
When a soul is sinking wi' pain,
To one who is pained like me;
My life 's grown a load,
And my faculties nod,
While I sigh for cold Jeanie in vain.
By beauty and scorn. I am slain,
The wound it is mortal and deep,
My pulses beat low in each vein,
And threaten eternal sleep.

COLIN .

Come, here are the best cures for thy wounds;
O boy, the cordial bowl!
With soft harmonious sounds;
Wounds! these can cure all wounds,
With soft harmonious sounds,
And pull of the cordial bowl.
O Symon! sink thy care, and tune up thy drooping soul.
Above, the gods beinly bouze,
When round they meet in a ring;
They cast away care, and carouse
Their nectar, while they sing:
Then drink and cheerfully sing,
These make the blood circle fine;
Strike up the music,
The safest physic,
Compounded with sparkling wine.