Cro Challin

My Colin, lov'd Colin, my Colin, my dear,

Who wont the wild mountains to trace without fear;

O where are thy flocks, that so swiftly rebound,

And fly o'er the heath without touching the ground?

O were I as fleet as the wings of the wind,

In chace of the roes when springing, Love,

At the sound of your voice I wou'd loiter behind,

So sweet is the charm of your singing, Love.

I heard it, I fear'd it, I knew that soft charm

Wou'd slacken my speed, and enervate my arm;

The deer, drawing near, now no more in alarm,

Through brakes in the woods are springing, Love.