Beneath a beech's grateful shade,
Young Colin lay complaining;
He sigh'd and seem'd to love a maid,
Without hopes of obtaining;
For thus the swain indulg'd his grief,
Tho' pity cannot move thee,
Tho' thy hard heart gives no relief,
Yet, Peggy, I must love thee.

 ... 

That beauteous breast so soft to feel,
Seem'd tenderness all over;
Yet it defends thy heart like steel,
'Gainst thy despairing lover.
Alas! tho' it should ne'er relent,
Nor Colin's care e'er move thee,
Yet till life's latest breath is spent,
My Peggy, I must love thee.