Oh, condescend, dear charming maid,
My wretched state to view;
A tender swain, to love betray’d,
And sad despair, by you.
While here, all melancholy,
My passion I deplore,
Yet, urg’d by stern, resistless fate,
I love thee more and more.
I heard of love, and with disdain
The urchin’s power denied.
I laugh’d at every lover’s pain,
And mock’d them when they sigh’d.
But how my state is alter’d!
Those happy days are o’er;
For all thy unrelenting hate,
I love thee more and more.
Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield!
No longer let me mourn;
And though victorious in the field,
Thy captive do not scorn.
Let generous pity warm thee,
My wonted peace restore;
And grateful I shall bless thee still,
And love thee more and more.
The following address of Turnbull’s to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air “There was a lass, and she was fair.” By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove,
That ever tried the plaintive strain,
Awake thy tender tale of love,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
For though the muses deign to aid
And teach him smoothly to complain,
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,
Is deaf to her forsaken swain.