WHEN AT
MOFFAT WELL.
ON the delightful banks of Mein,
The muse laments in pensive strain;
The nymphs assembl'd on the green,
Of Nelly's absence all complain.
Our rural swains no joys can find,
But still in pensive silence mourn;
With heads upon the turf reclin'd
They sigh, and wish your swift return.
Oft have they curs'd fair Moffat town,
With all the virtues of the Well;
The sprightly Beau, and rustic clown,
Of Nelly's charms delight to tell.
Dear maid, it is for you alone,
They spend whole days and nights in sighs;
And will you disregard their moan,
And all their plaintive notes despise?
'Tis Autumn now, the fertile field,
Rich Ceres decks with yellow grain;
With joy we would our sickles wield,
If Nelly deign'd to grace the plain.
Come now and of our labours share;
None better can that weapon ply;
O mitigate Philander's care,
Whose toil seems less when you are nigh.
Once more, dear Nell, I'd wish to see
You cheerful join the rural throng;
Your presence would enhance our glee,
And sweetly animate my song.