LIKE to a fading flower in May,
Which Gardner cannot save,
So Beauty must, sometime, decay
And drop in the grave.
Fair Burns, for long the talk and toast
Of many a gaudy Beau,
That Beauty has forever lost
That made each bosom glow.
Think, fellow sisters, on her fate!
Think, think how short her days!
Oh! think, and, e’er it be too late,
Turn from your evil ways.
Beneath this cold, green sod lies dead
That once bewitching dame
That fired Edina’s lustful sons,
And quench’d thei glowing flame.