Nigh Bolton Gate, beneath a hawthorn shade,
Two rural swains sad lamentations made:
Each for an absent damsel seem’d to mourn,
While throbbing breasts did sigh for sigh return.
Young D——y’s notes and T—’s fond praises prov’d,
That D——h T——r was the maid belov’d.
Says D—k, “O had I these sweet hours again,
I’ve spent with her; but ah! I wish in vain.
The nymph is fled; to Manchester she’s gone,
Nor heeds my sighs, nor yet regards my moan: