MY Molly is the sweetest maid,
That wanders o'er the sylvan wild;
Tho' born beneath yon humble shade,
Sure, on her birth some Fairy smil'd!

Her deep-brown locks my heart ensnare;
Love whispers in her fragrant sigh;
And there's a secret spell, I swear,
Within her soft, seducing eye.

Escaping from the village-crew,
I met her, once, at close of day;
Her ripe cheek caught a clearer hue
From the red Sun's reflected ray.

And much her coyness I accus'd;
And much I prais'd her blushful charms;
But, still, my fondness she refus'd,
Still, fled from my imploring arms;

At length, compassion touch'd her breast,
We sate where yon tall pine-trees spread;
Believe me, not a flow'r she prest,
But rear'd anew its am'rous head.

The virgin-snowdrop pin'd to see
Her pearly hand its leaves between;
And the blue violet wish'd to be
The brighter azure of each vein;

The swelling turf, in conscious pride,
With od'rous bloom was purpled o'er;
The long grass gently lean'd aside,
Pleas'd with the burthen that it bore.

I suck'd the balmy honey-dew,
That melted on her pouting lip,
And still, (oh! trust me, for 'tis true,)
The flavor on my own I keep.

Our souls took wing on every kiss:
What matchless ecstacy was mine!
Oh! who can blame the glowing bliss?
For, Shepherds! 'twas a bliss divine!

But now, while, flashing humid fire,
Her blue eyes glanc'd a parting gleam,
She cried “How ruin'd I retire!
Destroy'd by Love's delusive dream;”

“Ah! ne'er must Peace this bosom bless,
(And then she wip'd the sparkling tear,)
Perfidious lad! unless—unless—
Next eve again,—you meet me here!”