Robert Tannahill

The Fareweel

Accuse me not, inconstant fair,
   Of being false to thee,
For I was true, would still been so,
   Hadst thou been true to me.
But when I knew thy plighted lips
   Once to a rival's prest,
Love-smothered independence rose,
   And spurned thee from my breast.

The fairest flower in Nature's field
   Conceals the rankling thorn;
So thou, sweet flower! as false as fair,
   This once kind heart hath torn.
'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs
   That slighted love can feel;
'Tis thine to weep that one rash act,
   Which bids this long fareweel.