The Lass of the Hill

On the brow of a hill a young Shepherdess dwelt.
Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt:
For a few sober maxims still ran in her head
That 'twas better to earn, ere she ate her brown bread;
That to rise with the lark was conducive to health.
And, to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth.

Now young Roger, who lived in the valley below.
Who at church and at market was reckoned a beau,
Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail.
And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale:
With his winning behaviour he melted her heart;
For quite artless herself, she suspected no art.

He had sigh'd and protested, — had knelt and implored.
He could lie with the grandeur and air of a lord:
Then her eyes he commended in language well drest,
And enlarged on the torments that troubled his breast;
Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind,
That in downright compassion to love she inclined.

But as soon as he'd melted the ice of her breast,
All the flames of his love in a moment had ceas'd,
And now he goes flaunting all over the dell.
And boasts of his conquest to Susan and Nell:
Tho' he sees her but seldom, he's always in haste,
And if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest.

All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her head,
And her thoughts are so pester'd, she scarce earns her bread
The whole village cries shame when a milking she goes,
That so little affection she shows to the cows:
But she heeds not their railing, — e'en let them rail on,
And a fig for the cows, now her sweetheart is gone!

Take heed pretty virgins of Britain's fair Isle
How you venture your hearts for a look or a smile,
For Cupid is artful, and virgins are frail.
And you'll find a false Roger in every vale,
Who to court you and tempt you will try all his skill:
So remember the lass at the brow of the hill.