A Tis Betsy! the joy of the plain; Shepherds, stand not thus idly to gaze; Lay your lips to the pipe or the flute, Tune the best of your songs to her praise. B To Betsy, the joy of the plain, Our songs should with pleasure be shewn, But who, that has heard the sweet maid Will venture a note of his own? A Leave loitering ye Nymphs in the shade, And train up your gay summer bowers! Full handfuls of roses we'll bring, We'll dress her all over with flowers! C Stern Winter will ravage the mead, And these bowers shall be pleasant no more, The roses oer-blown must soon fall, And no season their sweetness restore, But the sunshine that laughs on her brow Unclouded shall ever remain; Ease, Wit, and the Graces reside, With Betsy the joy of the plain. |