THERE'S somewhat on my breast, father, There's somewhat on my breast! The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest. I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so; A weary weight oppresseth me -- This weary weight of woe! 'Tis not the lack of gold, father, Nor want of worldly gear; My lands are broad, and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear. My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief; But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief! 'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. 'Tis not @3her@1 coldness, father, That chills my labouring breast; It's that confounded cucumber I've ate and can't digest. |