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Capercaillie

The Fair Shepherd

Alas and alack, what a deadly sickness is love!
There is none who suffers it but feels every day is a week.
It has broken my heart and sapped the springs of my health
To keep gazing after you, young of the fair white bosom.

Fair-haired lad, if you but care to speak first,
My hand shall be yours without delay if you come for me:
Play it is true, you and I did not find ourselves
On an island with no ebb, with no oar, no boat, no rudder.

If you could see such a shoot springing up on a calm, misty morning,
With looks to go with it fit to win the hearts of thousands:
Sweeter is your voice than the strings of violins playing,
Can you not take pity on me, ? alone without you, lamenting on a knoll?