A BALLAD. Edward Moore Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1137 K093079.004 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. IV. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 104-106. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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A BALLAD . BY THE SAME . HARK , hark , 'tis a voice from the tomb , Come , Lucy , it cries , come away , The grave of thy Colin has room To rest thee beside his cold clay . I come , my dear shepherd , I come , Ye friends and companions adieu , I haste to my Colin's dark home , To die on his bosom so true . All mournful the midnight bell rung , When Lucy , sad Lucy , arose ; And forth to the green turf she sprung , Where Colin's pale ashes repose . All wet with the night's chilling dew , Her bosom embrac'd the cold ground , While stormy winds over her blew , And night-ravens croak'd all around . How long , my lov'd Colin , she cry'd , How long must thy Lucy complain ? How long shall the grave my love hide ? How long ere it join us again ? For thee thy fond shepherdess liv'd , With thee o'er the world would she fly ; For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd ; For thee would she lie down and die . Alas ! what avails it how dear Thy Lucy was once to her swain ! Her face like the lily so fair , And eyes that gave light to the plain . The shepherd that lov'd her is gone ; That face and those eyes charm no more ; And Lucy forgot , and alone , To death shall her Colin deplore . While thus she lay sunk in despair , And mourn'd to the echoes around , Inflam'd all at once grew the air , And thunder shook dreadful the ground . I hear the kind call , and obey , O ! Colin receive me , she cried , Then breathing a groan o'er his clay , She hung on his tomb-stone and died .