ON the delightful banks of Mein,
The muse laments in pensive strain;
The nymphs assembl’d on the green,
Of Nelly’s absence all complain.
Our rural swains no joys can find,
But still in pensive silence mourn;
With heads upon the turf reclin’d
They sigh, and wish your swift return.
Oft have they curs’d fair Moffat town,
With all the virtues of the Well;