Heaving of the Lead (1825)/From the white-blossom'd sloe

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THE THORN.

From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested,
A sprig her fair breast to adorn:
No, by heaven! I exclaim'd, may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.

Then I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,
She blush'd like the dawning of morn,
Yes, I'll consent, she reply'd, if you'll promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
No, by heaven! &c.

FINIS.