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Yes there, my friend ! forlorn and sad,
I grave your Thomson's name;
To found your growing fame.
There shall my plaintive song recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe; And, faster than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.
There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green,
Shall shade the hallow'd ground; And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.
But na kind suns will bid me share,
Once more, his social hour;
This loss, to Damon's bow'r.
A BALLAD; written about the Time of his
Execution, in the Year 1745.
OME listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at every woe;
And pity every plaint-but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain ; And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
One tender maid, she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came; And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favour'd youth astray ; The day the rebel clans appear’d,
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours, and their falh he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found; And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
How pale was then his true-love's cheek,
When JEMMY's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, or yet fo chill appear.
With faultering voice, she weeping said,
Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart; Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring telief to Jemmy's woes; O GEORGE, without a pray’r for thee,
My orisons should never close.
The gracious prince that gave
him life, Would crown a never-dying flame; And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
But tho' he should be dragg’d in scorn
To yonder ignominious tree;
To share the cruel fates' decree.
O then her mourning coach was call’d,
The Nedge mov'd Nowly on before; Tho'borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view,
The terrible behests of law;
With calm and stedfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face,
Which she had fondly lov'd so long; And stifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:
And sever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd; And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her lovesick head repos’d:
And ravish'd was that constant heart,
She did to ev'ry heart prefer; For tho’ it could its king forget, 'Twas true and loyal still to her,
Amid those unrelenting flames,
She bore this constant heart to fee; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,
Yet, yet, she cry'd, I follow thee.
My death, my death alone can shew
The pure, the lasting love I bore; Accept, О heav'n! of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more.
The dismal scene was o'er and past,
The lover's mournful hearse retir'd ; The maid drew back her languid head,
And lighing forth his name, expir’d.
Tho' justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds, is due ; For fellom shall she hear a tale
So sad, fo tender, yet so true.