When early morn walks forth in sober grey; Then to my black ey'd maid I haste away, When evening sits beneath her dusky bow'r, And gently sighs away the silent hour; The village bell alarms, away I go; And the vale darkens at my pensive woe. To that sweet village, where my black ey'd maid Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade, I turn my eyes; and, pensive as I go, Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe. Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees, Whisp'ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze, I walk the village round; if at her side A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride, I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe, That made my love so high, and me so low. O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear, And throw all pity on the burning air; I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot, And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot. |