Classic Poem

How happy a shepherd was I!
My cot with contentment was blest,
Ere, Delia sweet maid passed by!
Ere Cupid, had wounded my breast.
With the lark in the morning I rose,
My flock to attend all the day,
At night, ah! how sweet my repose:
But Delia, has stole it away.

How dismal, alas! is the change
I tumble and sigh! all the night,
How dull o'er the meadows I range,
No prospect can yield me delight.
My pipe I've thrown careless away,
My songs I have almost forgot,
Oh! Delia — I sigh all the day,
But Delia, alas! hears me not.

The woodland, the meadow and grove,
How oft has re-echo'd my song;
Wou'd Delia attend to my love,
I'd sing to her all the day long:
My pipe is esteem'd by each swain,
Alexis has spoke in its praise!
With mirth it has oft fill'd the plain,
Perhaps she has heard of my lays: —

But vainly I hope for such bliss,
My fate is too lowly for her;
Yet sure she can't take it amiss,
If my passion I strive to prefer:
Tho' humble — a shepherd I'm born —
Her goodness with that may dispence,
My lowliness can't be her scorn,
For Delia has candour and sense.

Like others I never have rov'd,
O Venus! attend to my prayer,
The charmer, I saw and I lov'd!
O! make her as kind as she's fair.
Yet ah! if some happier swain,
The nymph may have heard with delight;
Ah! then I am doom'd to complain;
Ye shepherds, oh! pity my plight.

I'll put off this rustic attire,
And dress in my Sunday array,
The swains oft my person admire,
And call me young Colin the gay!
'Tis a folly to sigh and complain,
Perhaps I may not be too late;
She may not have fix'd on a swain;
I'll go — and enquire my fate.