’Tis a landscape of pleasure, ’tis a garden of green,
And the fairest of flowers that ever was seen.
For hunting, for fishing, and for fowling also—
The fairest of flowers on this mountain doth grow.
At the foot of this mountain there the ocean doth flow,
And ships from the East Indies to the westward do go,
With the red flags aflying and the beating of drums—
Sweet instruments of music and the firing of guns.
Had Polly proved loyal I’d have made her my bride,
But her mind being inconstant it ran like the tide;