Song

1 My days have been so wondrous free,
      The little birds that fly
    With careless ease from tree to tree,
      Were but as bless’d as I.

2 Ask gliding waters, if a tear
      Of mine increased their stream?
    Or ask the flying gales, if e’er
      I lent one sigh to them?

3 But now my former days retire,
      And I’m by beauty caught,
    The tender chains of sweet desire
      Are fix’d upon my thought.

4 Ye nightingales! ye twisting pines!
      Ye swains that haunt the grove!
    Ye gentle echoes! breezy winds!
      Ye close retreats of lore!

5 With all of Nature, all of Art,
      Assist the dear design;
    Oh teach a young, unpractised heart
      To make my Nancy mine.

6 The very thought of change I hate,
      As much as of despair;
    Nor ever covet to be great,
      Unless it be for her.

7 ’Tis true, the passion in my mind
      Is mix’d with soft distress;
    Yet while the fair I love is kind,
      I cannot wish it less.