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; 
Tho' busy flatterers swarm around, 
  I know her constant mind.
'Tis not her coldness, father, 
  That chills my labouring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber 
  I've eat and can't digest.