Classic Poem

Sweet birds that inhabit my trees,
Melodious heralds of morn;
No more can your harmony please,
Since Phillida's left me forlorn.

You saw yester eve in the grove,
Sweet blushes vermillion'd her cheek;
You heard her approve of my love,
And vow she'd mine in a week.

Ye minstrels, she's false as the wind,
She's fled to a far richer swain.
Yet tho' she has prov'd so unkind,
Love bids me in silence complain;
While Hope, with a tender concern,
Says, Phillida yet may return.