Jemmy Dawson. A Ballad. Written about the time of his execution, in the year 1745

COME listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts and lovers dear!
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.

And thou, dear Kitty! peerless maid!
Do thou, a pensive ear incline,
For thou canst weep at ev'ry woe,
And pity ev'ry plaint—but mine.

Young Dawson was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain,
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.

One tender maid, she lov'd him dear;
Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favour'd youth astray,
The day the rebel clans appear'd;
O had he never seen that day!

Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true-love's cheek,
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, or yet so chill, appear.

With falt'ring voice she, weeping, said,
" O Dawson! monarch of my heart!
" Think not thy death shall end our loves,
" For thou and I will never part.

" Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
" And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
" O George! without a pray'r for thee
" My orisons should never close.

" The gracious prince that gave him life
" Would crown a never-dying flame,
" And ev'ry tender babe I bore
" Should learn to lisp the giver's name.

" But tho' he should be dragg'd in scorn
" To yonder ignominious tree,
" He shall not want one constant friend
" To share the cruel Fates' decree."

O! then her mourning coach was call'd;
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.

She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behests of law,
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and stedfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face
Which she had fondly lov'd so long,
And stifled was that tuneful breath
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:

And sever'd was that beauteous neck
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd,
And mangled was that beauteous breast
On which her love-sick head repos'd:

And ravish'd was that constant heart
She did to ev'ry heart prefer,
For tho' it could its king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her.

Amid those unrelenting flames
She bore this constant heart to see,
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,
" Yet, yet," she cry'd, "I follow thee.

" My death, my death alone can shew
" The pure, the lasting love I bore:
" Accept, O Heav'n! of woes like ours,
" And let us, let us weep no more."

The dismal scene was o'er and past,
The lover's mournful herse retir'd;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And, sighing forth his name, expir'd.

Tho' justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds is due,
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, yet so true.