Song #3 Poem by Joanna Baillie

YES , thou mayst walk in silk attire,
If thou'lt consent to be his bride,
Whose wealth can satiate each desire
That ministers to pride.
If thou'lt forswear thy plighted love,
And leave his aching heart to break,
With whom, in Teviot's evening grove,
Thou vow'dst life's lot to take.
To whom thy stainless, youthful heart,
Pledg'd its affections earliest glow,
And bade thy faltering lips impart
Bliss he no more can know.
When life to thee, as then to him,
Beam'd in its freshest, loveliest hue,
In rapture's cup, love to the brim
Rose bright,--but how untrue!

Nay, nay, the friendly hand I scorn,
Thy love was mine, I'll ne'er take less;
If chang'd affection can't be borne,
There's refuge from distress.
The damask couch--the fretted roof--
May sooth thy rest--may please thine eye;
A lowlier dome--a ruder woof--
He seeks, who seeks to die.