There's not a swain of the plain

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?