Lyrics:
A village curate lov'd a maid,
A little gay coquette,
Who with his heart at football play'd,
And often made him fret.
The more he woo'd her day by day
The more she teased him too,
until at length he went away
To see what that would do.
“Ah! me,” then sigh'd she,
“I am lonely as can be;
Well, well, maidens tell,
Lovers sometimes break the spell.
A letter to her parents came,
And this is what it daid,
“Since Clara would not change her name,
A widow I have wed.”
Sad-hearted turn'd the maid aside,
And then her grief was such
That all day long she crying, cried,
“I loved him very much.”
“Ah! me,” then sobb'd she,
“I am wretched as can be;
Woe, woe, maidens know,
Lovers often serve us so.
But soon again his wonted place,
That artful curate sought;
He saw the pretty pensive face,
And whispered “Fairly caught!
Be mine, there's nothing to deter,
Forgive my simple plan:
'Tis true, my dear, I married her,
But to another man.
“Ah! me,” then sang she,
“I am happy as can be;
Say, say, maidens aye,
Lovers always find a way.
