Despairing, beside a clear Stream,

A Shepherd forsaken was laid,

And while a false Nymph was his Theme,

A Willow supported his Head.

The Wind that blew over the Plain,

To his Sighs with a Sigh did reply;

And the Brook, in return to his Pain,

Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas silly Swain that I was!

Thus sadly complaining, he cry'd;

When first I beheld that Fair Face,

'Twere better by far I had dy'd.

She talk'd, and I bless'd the Dear Tongue;

When She smil'd, 'twas a Pleasure too great;

I listen'd, and cry'd when She sung,

Was Nightingale ever so sweet?

How foolish I was to believe

She cou'd doat on so lowly a Clown;

Or that her fond Heart wou'd not grieve,

To forsake the Fine Folk of the Town!

To think that a Beauty so Gay,

So Kind and so Constant wou'd prove,

To go clad like our Maidens in Grey,

Or live in a Cottage on Love.

What tho' I have Skill to complain,

Tho' the Muses my Temples have crown'd;

What tho' when they hear my soft Strain,

The Virgins sit weeping around.

Ah Colin! thy Hopes are in vain,

Thy Pipe and thy Lawrel resign;

Thy Fair One inclines to a Swain,

Whose Musick is sweeter than thine.

And you, my Companions so Dear,

Who sorrow to see me betray'd;

Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false Maid.

Tho' thro' the wide World I shou'd range,

'Tis in vain from my Fortune to fly;

'Tis Her's to be false and to change,

'Tis Mine to be constant and dye.

If while my Hard Fate I sustain,

In her Breast any Pity is found,

Let Her come with the Nymphs of the Plain,

And see me laid low in the Ground:

The last humble Boon that I crave,

To shade me with Cypress and Eugh;

And when She looks down on my Grave,

Let her own that her Shepherd was true.

Then to her New Love let her go,

And deck her in Golden Array,

Be Finest at ev'ry Fine Show,

And frolick it all the long Day:

While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talk'd of, or seen,

Unless when beneath the pale Moon,

His Ghost shall glide over the Green.