To A City Girl.

Sweet Mary, though nor sighs nor pains     Impassion'd courtship prove,     My simple song the truth ne'er feigns     To win thee to my love:     I ask thee from thy bustling life,     Where nought can pleasing prove,     From city noise, and care, and strife     O come, and be my love!     If harmless mirth delight thine eyes,     Then make my cot thy home;     The country-life abounds with joys,     And whispers thee to come;     Here fiddles urge thy nimble feet     Adown the dance to move,     Here pleasures in continuance meet--     O come, and be my love!     If music's charm, that all delights,     Has witcheries for thee,     The country then my love invites,     In echoed melody;     Here thrushes chant their madrigals,     Here breathes the ringed dove     Soft as day's closing murmur falls--     O come, and be my love!     If nature's prospects, wood, and vale,     Thy visits can entice,     The country's scenes thy coming hail,     To meet a paradise;     Here pride can raise no barring wall     To hide the flower and grove,     Here fields are gardens, free for all--     O come, and be my love!     If music, mirth, and all combine     To make my cot thy home,     To tempt thee, Mary, to be mine,     Then why delay to come?     Here night-birds sing my love to sleep,     Here sweet thy dreams shall prove,     Here in my arms shall Mary creep--     O come, and be my love!