ABSTRACT
I In the Blooming Time o’th’ year, In the Royal Month of May: Au the Heaves were glad and clear, Au the Earth was Fresh and Gay. 5 A Noble Youth but all Forlorn, Lig’d Sighing by a Spring: ‘Twere better I’s was nere Born, Ere wisht to be a King. II Then from his Starry Eyne, 10 Muckle Showers of Christal Fell: To bedew the Roses Fine, That on his Cheeks did dwell. And ever ’twixt his Sighs he’d cry, How Bonny a Lad I’d been, 15 Had I, weys me, nere Aim’d high, Or wisht to be a King. III With Dying Clowdy Looks, Au the Fields and Groves he kens: Au the Gleeding Murmuring Brooks, 20 (Noo his Unambitious Friends) Tol which he eance with Mickle Cheer His Bleating Flocks woud bring: And crys, woud God I’d dy’d here, Ere wisht to be a King. <target id="page_83" target-type="page">83</target>IV 25 How oft in Yonder Mead Cover’d ore with Painted Flowers: Au the Dancing Youth I’ve led, Where we past our Blether Hours. In Yonder Shade, in Yonder Grove, 30 How Blest the Nymphs have been: Ere I for Pow’r Debaucht Love, Or wisht to be a King. V Not [au] the Arcadian Swains, In their Pride and Glory Clad: 35 Not au the Spacious Plains, Ere coud Boast a Bleether Lad. When ere I Pip’d, or Danc’d, or Ran, Or leapt, or whirl’d the Sling: The Flowry Wreaths I still won, 40 And wisht to be a King, VI But Curst be yon Tall Oak, And Old Thirsis be accurst: There I first my peace forsook, There I learnt Ambition first. 45 Such Glorious Songs of Hero’s Crown’d, The Restless Swain woud Sing: My Soul unknown desires found, And Languisht to be King. VII Ye Garlands wither now, 50 Fickle Glories vanish all: Ye Wreaths that deckt my Brow, To the ground neglected fall. No more my sweet Repose molest, Nor to my Fancies bring 55 The Golden Dreams of being Blest With Titles of a King. VIII Ye Noble Youths beware, Shun Ambitious powerful Tales: Distructive, False, and Fair, 60 Like the Oceans Flattering Gales See how my Youth and Glories lye, Like Blasted Flowers i’th’ Spring: My Fame Renown and all dye, For wishing to be King.
