John Fergus

Come shepherds and aid me to mourn
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Edinburgh, c.1795.
Lyrics: Gavin Turnbull

Come shepherds and aid me to mourn,
Ye nymphs bring me garlands of yew,
Around our young Corydon's urn
The branches we'll lavishly strew.
To all he was gentle and kind,
By all the dear youth was belov'd;
He charm'd with the wit of his mind
And his music was always approv'd.

When he sung he enchanted each maid;
Such music was heard in the sound.
Now his pipe it hangs mute in the shade,
And the groves are all gloomy around;
The breezes proclaim, with a sigh,
His loss, and his absence deplore:
And the echoes in murmurs reply
We'll repeat his soft verses no more.