O! DAMON ! how much thou art chang'd--
How cold that false bosom of thine;
Since late, on Dee's banks as we rang'd,
You vow'd you would ever be mine!
The language that flow'd from your tongue
Was artful, engaging, and sweet;
My praises you constantly sung;
And, when absent, we languish'd to meet!
You prais'd the soft beam of my eyes,
My tresses that play'd in the gale;
The rose on my cheek, which now dies--
Since DAMON was false, it grows pale!
You vow'd till life's glass ceas'd to run,
That you ne'er would be false, nor deceive;
But when my fond heart you had won,
You left me to weep and to grieve!
When the shrill sounding trumpet was heard
In our valleys, late peaceful and bless'd,
All the youths of our village appear'd,
And to GEORGE 's fam'd standard they press'd;
The sickle indignant you threw
From your hand, as you reap'd in the field--
Plac'd a helmet and plumes on your brow,
Now resolv'd warlike weapons to wield.
When we parted, you fondly declar'd
That, tho' absent, you still would be true;
But, ah! to my sorrow I've heard
That you're false, and have broken your vow!
Tho' credulous hearts you may wring,
Yet soon you will find to your cost,
That the visits of conscience will sting,
When the zest of false pleasure is lost.
I struggle in vain to get free,
Still, alas! my fond heart is your slave!
I can love, dear, false DAMON ! but thee,
Till, by grief, I'm laid low in the grave!