No nymph that trips the verdant plains,|
With Sally can compare.
She wins the hearts of all the swains,
And rivals all the fair.
The beams of Sol delight and cheer,
While summer seasons roll,
But Sally's smiles can all the year,
Give summer to the soul,
Give summer to the soul.
When from the east the morning ray
Illumines the world below,
Her presence bids the god of day
With emulation glow;
Fresh beauties deck the painting ground;
Birds sweeter notes prepare;
The playful lambkins skip around,
And hail the lovely fair.
The lark but strains her liquid throat
To bid the maid rejoice,
And micmics, while he swells the note,
The sweetness of her voice;
The fanning zephyrs round her play,
While Flora sheds perfume;
And ev'ry flowret seems to say,
I but for Sally bloom.
The am'rous youths her charms proclaim;
From morn to eve their tale:
Her beauty, and unspotted fame
Make vocal ev'ry vale.
The stream, mean'dring thro the mead,
Her echoed name conveys;
And ev'ry voice, and ev'ry reed,
Is tuned to Sally's praise.
No more shall blithsome lass or swain
To mirthful shows resort,
Nor ev'ry may-morn, on the plain
Advance in rural sport;
No more shall gush the purling rill,
Nor music wake the grove.
Nor flocks look snow-white on the hill,
When I forget to love.