Farewel, ye Fields; my native Fields, adieu;
Whose fertile Lays my early Labours knew;
Where, when an Infant, I was wont to stray,
And gather King-cups at the closing Day.
How oft has  told a mournful Tale,
By the clear Lake that shines in yonder Vale;
When she had done I sung a chearful Lay,
While the glad Goldfinch listen'd on the Spray:
Lur'd by my Song each jolly Swain drew near,
And rosy Virgins throng'd around to hear:
Farewel, ye Swains; ye rosy Nymphs, adieu:
Tho' I (unwilling) leave the Streams and you,
Still may soft Musick bless your happy Shore,
But,  you must hear no more.