O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, Why, why wouldst thou cruel, CHORUS. Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet ALTHO' thou maun never be mine, "Tis sweeter for thee despairing, I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms; But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, For then I am lockt in thy arms-Jessy! Here's a health, &c. |