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It was in sweet July,When flowers were blooming,This young man and ITogether did meet;Then with his intreating,Set my heart a aching,And with his lies makingCauses me now to weep.
O! death, come and ease me,Since grief it hath seiz’d me,The wound which I bear,No mortal can cure:My spirits are dying,My breath it is flying,My heart it is breaking,O! the pains I endure.
O young man, most cruel,You have wrought my ruin,In cropping my flowers,Young, tender and green,Delays will discover,I'm a wounded lover,Since you discoverWhat now, you have seen.
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GLASGOW,
Printed by J. & M. ROBERTSON
Saltmarket, 1799.
