The Distressed Shepherd:
OR,
Joy after Sorrow. To a Pleasant New Tune.
Enter'd in the Stamp-Office according to Act of Parliament.
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I Am a poor Shepherd undone,
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and cannot be cured by Art,
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For a Nymph as bright as the Sun,
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has stole away my Heart;
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And how to get it again,
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There's none but she can tell:
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To cure me of my Pain,
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By saying she loves me well:
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And, alas, poor Shepherd,
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alack and a well-a-Day,
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Before I was in Love,
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Oh! every Month was May.
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The Nymph has a Million of Charms,
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most lovely to behold;
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I'd rather had her in my Arms,
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than glittering Crowns of Gold.
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The Blessing I mayn't enjoy,
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which causes me to complain;
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For I am in Cupid's decoy,
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and cannot get out again:
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And, alas, poor Shepherd, etc.
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The violent Pains of Love,
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there's nobody knows but I;
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I'm courting the Powers above,
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to let me not live. For why?
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No Pleasure nor Rest i have;
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no Happiness can i see:
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But when i am in my Grave,
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from Fetters I shall be free:
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And, alas, poor Shepherd, etc
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Then my innocent Flocks i fed,
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along by the Silver Streams.
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On Rushes i laid my Head,
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possess'd with Golding Dreams
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And every sweet delight,
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most pleasant unto mine Eye,
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But now i am ruin'd quite;
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I know not the reason why?
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And, alas, poor shepherd, etc
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If to love she should not incline,
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I told her I'd die in an Hour.
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To die, says she, 'tis in thine,
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but to love 'tis not in my Power.
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I ask'd her the Reason why,
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she could not of me approve?
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She said, 'Twas a Task too hard,
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To give any Reason for love:
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And, alas, poor Shepherd, etc.
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She ask'd me of my Estate,
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i told her a Flock of Sheep;
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The Grass whereon they Graze,
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were she and i might sleep.
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Besides a good ten Pound
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in old King Harry's Groats;
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With Hooks and Crooks abound,
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and Birds of sundry Notes:
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And alas poor Shepherd, etc.
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But Shepherd one Word by the way,
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if i to love you shou'd yeild;
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i think you are pleased to say,
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that we must lie in the Field.
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i am sorry to hear it, alas!
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i'm sure my Charms it will kill;
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So if we must lye on the Grass,
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you ne'er shall gain my Good-will:
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And alas poor Shepherd, etc.
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We Shepherds admire no Beds,
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our Vallies well may suffice;
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The Canopy over our Heads,
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my Dear, are the spangled Skies.
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Our Musick is bleating of Sheep,
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and rustling Bows of Trees;
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So while in these Vallies we sleep,
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we shan' n't be troubl'd with Fleas.
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And alas poor Shepherd, etc.
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Ten Pounds in King Harry's old Groats:
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Well Shepherd if that be true,
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i think i shall not make auts,
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of such a kind love as you:
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Thy Lodging i'll not despise,
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whatever i said excuse,
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For she that is truly Wise,
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will not a Good Match refuse:
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Then cheer up dear Shepherd,
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i'll no longer say thee nay;
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Thou shall Bathe in the Charms of Love,
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and flourish like Blooms in May.
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