To rob me of my peace conspire?
Where the black hair that may like hers
In hue with ebony compare?
Where [the light foot that never stirs],
When bounding o’er the meadows fair,
The lowly flowers that blossom there?
Maids of the Henil! dark ye be;
But ne’er would I exchanged resign
Your charms for all that here I see,
Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine