The Love-sick Maid.
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THE Winter it is past,
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And the Summer come at last;
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And the small Birds sings on every Tree,
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The Hearts of those is glad,
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Whilst mine is very sad;
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Whilst my true Love is absent from me.
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Ill put on my Cap of black,
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And Fringes about my Neck,
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And Rings on my Fingers Ill wear;
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All this Ill undertake,
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For true Lovers sake,
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For he Rides at the Curragh of Kildare,
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A Livery Ill wear,
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And Ill comb down my Hair,
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And Ill dress in the Velvet so green:
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Straiaways I will repair,
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To the Curragh of Kildare,
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And tis there I will get Tydings of him.
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With Patience she did wait,
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Till they ran for the Plate,
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In thinking young Johnston to see;
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But Fortune provd unkind,
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To that Sweetheart of mine,
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For hes gone to Lurgan from me.
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I should not think it strange,
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The wide world for to range,
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If I could obtain my Hearts delight:
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But here in Cupids Chains,
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Im obligd to remain,
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Whilst in Tears do spend the whole Night.
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My Love is like the Sun,
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That in the Firmament doth run,
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Which is always constant and true:
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But yours is like the Moon,
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That doth wander up and down,
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And in every Month its new.
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All you that are in Love,
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And cannot it remove,
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For you pittied are by me:
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Experience makes me know,
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That your Heart i[s] full of woe,
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Since my true Love is absent from me.
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Farewel my Joy and Heart,
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Since you and I must part,
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You are the fairest that eer I did see:
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And I never do design,
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For to alter my Mind,
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Altho youre below my Degree.
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