Volume 5 — A Song.
Reading edition
[Listen]
WHEN Jemmy first began to love, He was the finest Swain; That ever yet a Flock had drove, Or Danc’d upon the Plain: ’Twas then that I, woe’s me poor heart, My Freedom threw away; And finding sweets in every part, I could not say him nay. For ever when he spake of Love, He wou’d his Eyes decline; Each Sigh he gave a Heart wou’d move, Good faith, and why not mine: He’d press my Hand, and Kiss it oft, His silence spoke his Flame; And whilst he treated me thus soft, I wish’d him more to blame. Sometimes to feed my Flock with his, Jemmy wou’d me invite; Where he the finest Songs would Sing, Me only to Delight: Then all his Graces he display’d, Which were enough I trow; To conquer any Princely Maid, So did he me I trow. But now for Jemmy I must Mourn, He to the Wars must go; His Sheephook to a Sword must turn, Alack what shall I do? His Bagpipes into Warlike sounds, Must now converted be; His Garlands into fearful Wounds, Oh! what becomes of me?
