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In Scotland he's deem'd,And highly esteem'd,In England he seemeth a stranger to be;Yet his fame shall remain,In France and in Spain;All bless on my Black Bird wherever be be.
What if the fowler my Black Bird has taken,Then sighing and lobbing will be all my timeBut if he is safe I'll not be forsaken,And hope yet to see him in May or in June,For him through the fire,Through mud and through mire,I'll go; for I love him to such a degree,Who is constant and kind,And noble of mind,Deserving all blessings wherever he be.
It is not the ocean can fright me with danger,Nor though, like a pilgrim, I wander forlorn,I may meet with friendship of one who's a stranger,More than of one that in Britain is born.I pray heav'n so spacious,To Britain be gracious,Tho' some there be odious to both him and me,Yet joy and renown,And laurels shall crown,My Black-Bird with honour wherever he be.
Love is the cause of my Mourning.
By a murmuring stream a fair shepherdess lay,Be so kind, O ye nymphs, I oft-times heard her say,Tell Strephon I die, if he passes this way,And that love is the cause of my mourning,False shepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms,Deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never warms,Yet bring me this Strephon, let me die in his arms,Oh Strephon! the cause of my mourning.
