The National Intelligencer And Washington Advertiser

NANCY'S SONG.

BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me prefer
That you cherish a secret affection for me?
When we see the flow'rs bud, don't we look for the bloom?
Thus, sweetest, attend while I answer to thee.

When we young men with palings the twilight beguile,
I warm your plump cheek till it dimples with joy;
And observe that, whatever occasions the smiles,
You give me a glance—but provokingly coy.

Last month, when wild strawberries pluck'd in the grove,
Like beads on the tall-headed grass you had strung,
You give me the choicest—I hop'd twas for love,
And I told you my hopes while the nightingale sung.

Remember the viper—was close to your feet,
How you started, and threw yourself into my arm;
Not a strawberry there was so ripe and so sweet
As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms.

As I pull'd down the cluster of nuts on my fair,
What a blow I receiv'd from a strong bending bough!
Though I say and other gay lasses were there,
Not one of them show'd such compassion as you.

And what · compassion?—By heaven twas more!
A relish it betrays you—that blush on your cheek,
Then come, dearest maid, all your trifling give o'er,
And whisper what candor will teach you to speak.

Can you stain my fair honor with one broken vow?
Can you say that I ever occasion'd a tear?
On truth's honest base let your tenderness grow:
I swear to be faithful, again and again.