There's Not a Swain

There's not a Swain, on the Plain, Would be bless'd like me, oh! Could you but on me smile; But you appear so severe That trembling with fear, My heart goes pit-a-pat, all the while: When I cry, must I die, You make no reply, but look shy, And with a scornful eye Kill me by your cruelty. Oh! can you be so hard to me?