  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. |
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