lirik lagu ghizela rowe - written january the 1st, 1792 by janet little
today old wrinkl’d time appears;
a smile adorns his brow
while to our list of fleeting years
he adds the ninety~two
our fav’rite hopes, that swiftly glide
announce his steps too slow
lest disappointment’s hazy stride
should ev’ry bliss o’erthrow
he softly creeps along the way
while we his progress watch:
he turns his back, vain our essay
his bald~pate then to catch
on his right hand a lovely dame
in robes of crimson hue;
her eyes our admiration claim
her form attracts our view;
distant her air, staid, sapient, mild
a figure fine and tall;
by wisdom own’d, her legal child
who did hеr prudence call
with vermil lips, in accеnts sweet
soft as that falling snow
there words i heard the nymph repeat
address’d to all below:
‘in virtue’s cause exert your pow’rs
let her your actions sway;
employ with speed the passing hours
nor trust another day.’
on his left hand, with tardy pace
here walks a maid forlorn;
lank hunger painted on her face
her scanty raiment torn:
rich luxury her father deem’d
idle her dam confess’d;
in public by no man esteem’d
in secret much caress’d
with smirking smile, and speeches fair
she does us kindly greet;
but sage experience cries, ‘beware!
she’ll prove an arrant cheat.’
this now the lazy warrior finds
his sword with rust adorn’d;
half plann’d as yet his dire designs
his conquests unperform’d
she’ll spoil the politician’s scheme
the patriot’s gen’rous toil;
for sloth is the impostor’s name
o deign her not a smile
she whisper’d in young strephon’s ear
when delia seem’d to frown
that soon she’d change that look severe
and all his wishes crown
lull’d in her soft, alluring chain
his success did prevent;
till delia found an active swain
and left him to lament
poor chloe’s comrade, air and late
while pow’rs she had to charm;
those gone, she feels the sad deceit
and gives the loud alarm
in vain each specious art she tries;
vain the cosmetic aid:
she must be what all ranks despise
an old forsaken maid
sloth, of society the pest
of ev’ry bliss the bane
may we the latent ills detest
which form thy direful train
our helm let prudence ever steer;
she’ll shield us from the blast;
and ev’ry new, revolving year
remind us of our last
direct our course to yonder shore
where virtue ever reigns;
where time and seasons are no more;
where death is bound in chains
unvari’d there the blissful scene
‘mid seraphims above
all pure, all placid, and serene
all harmony and love
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