The Confession
There’s somewhat on my breast, father,
There’s somewhat on my breast!
The livelong day I sigh, father,
And at night I cannot rest.
I cannot take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so;
A weary weight oppresseth me—
This weary weight of woe!
’Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor want of worldly gear;
My lands are broad, and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear.
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief;
But oh! ’tis not a kinsman’s hand
Can give my heart relief!
’Tis not that Janet’s false, father,
’Tis not that she’s unkind;
Tho’ busy flatterers swarm around—
I know her constant mind.
’Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast,
It’s that confounded cucumber
I’ve eat and can’t digest.