CONTENT,
A
PASTORAL SONG.
By the late Mr.
CUNNINGHAM.
O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,
As wearied and wilder'd I roam,
A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me o'er lawns to her home;
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,
Green rushes were strew'd on the floor,
Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,
And deck'd the sod seats at the door.
We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast,
Fresh fruits, and she cull'd me the best;
Whilst thrown from my guard, by some glances she cast,
Love slily stole into my breast:
I told my soft wishes, she sweetly reply'd.
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)
I've rich one's rejected, and great ones deny'd,
Yet take me, fond shepherd, I'm thine.
Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple, tho' sweet, were her charms;
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the dear maid in my arms:
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if on the banks by the stream,
Reclin'd on her bosom I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.
Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views;
Or rest on the rock, whence the streamlet distils,
And mark out new themes for my muse.
To pomp, or proud titles, she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;
The cottager Peace is well known for her sire,
The shepherds have nam'd her CONTENT.