John Cunningham

Fanny of the Dell

Let the declining damask rose
With envious grief look pale;
The summer bloom more freely glows
In Fanny of the dale.

Is there a sweet that decks the field,
Or scents the morning gale,
Can such a vernal fragrance yield—
As Fanny of the dale?

The painted belles, at court rever'd,
Look lifeless, cold, and stale:
How faint their beauties, when compar'd
With Fanny of the dale!

The willows bind Pastora's brows.
Her fond advances fail;
For Damon pays his warmest vows
To Fanny of the dale.

Might honest truth, at last, succeed,
And artless love prevail;
Thrice happy con'd he tune his reed,
With Fanny of the dale!