A Song

A SONG

It was at night his form divine, Did with transplendent beauty shine, And won my right good will; The moon did cast a pleasing ray, We thought it sweeter than the day, And wander'd to the hill.

We seem'd to tread enchanted ground, Where fairies keep their midnight round, As I have oft been told; We set us down upon a rock, Where shepherds us'd to feed their flock, In golden days of old.

My bosom thrill'd with pleasing pain, He look'd so like that handsome swain, Who charm'd the Grecian fair; I swore by all yon lights above, My heart, till then a foe to love, Did yield like easy air.

With envy all condemn my flame, And Prudence says I am to blame, For loving one so rare, Yes, I confess I have been wrong, For not Apollo, God of Song, With Jamie can compare.