When early morn walks forth in sober grey，

    Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away；

    When evening sits beneath her dusky bow'r，

    And gently sighs away the silent hour，

    The village bell alarms， away I go，

    And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.

    To that sweet village， where my black-eyed maid

    Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade，

    I turn my eyes； and pensive as I go

    Curse my black stars and bless my pleasing woe.

    Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees，

    Whisp'ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze，

    I walk the village round； if at her side

    A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride，

    I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe，

    That made my love so high and me so low.

    O should she e'er prove false， his limbs I'd tear

    And throw all pity on the burning air；

    I'd curse bright fortune for my mixèd lot，

    And then I'd die in peace and be forgot.