There’s somewhat on my breast, father,
There’s somewhat on my breast!
The livelong day I sigh, father,
And at night I cannot rest.
I cannot take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so;
A weary weight oppresseth me —
This weary weight of woe!
’Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor want of worldly gear;
My lands are broad, and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear.
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief;
But oh! ’tis not a kinsman’s hand,
Can give my heart relief!
’Tis not that Janet’s false, father,
’Tis not that she’s unkind;
Tho’ busy flatterers swarm around —
I know her constant mind.
’Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast,
It’s that confounded cucumber
I’ve eat and can’t digest.
Last updated Monday, December 22, 2014 at 10:51