The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you;
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash'd with dew.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
All lonely, waiting here for you?
Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine:
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,
He takes me for a thief, you see;
For he knows I'd steal you, Molly, darling,
And then transported I should be.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
All lonely, waiting here for you?

_Samuel Lover_.




GO, HAPPY ROSE!


Go, happy Rose! and interwove
With other flowers, bind my love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter'd me.