The brook can see no moon but this.
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks on thee,
While, Oh! I feel there is but one—
One Mary in the world for me!—
Had not my talented friend garnished the above ditty with a note, admitting that he had pilfered his Irish Melody from an Englishman’s brains (Sir William Jones’s), I should have passed over so extravagant an attempt to manufacture simplicity. I therefore hope my friend will in future either confide in his own supreme talents, or not be so candid as to spoil his song by his sincerity. “It is the devil (said Skirmish) to desert; but it’s a d—d deal worse to own it!”
I think Dean Swift’s sample of Love Songs (though written near a century ago) has formed an admirable model for a number of modern sonnets; it should be much esteemed, since it is copied by so many of our minstrels.
LOVE SONG BY DEAN SWIFT.
Fluttering, spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart: