Adam Austin (1726?–1774)

FOR lack of gold she’s left me, O,

And of all that’s dear bereft me, O;

She me forsook for Athole’s duke,

And to endless woe she has left me, O.

A star and garter have more art

Than youth, a true and faithful heart;

For empty titles we must part,

And for glittering show she’s left me, O.

No cruel fair shall ever move

My injured heart again to love;

Through distant climates I must rove,

Since Jeanie she has left me, O.

Ye powers above, I to your care

Give up my faithless, lovely fair;

Your choicest blessings be her share,

Though she’s for ever left me, O!