A pastoral elegy in four double-quatrain stanzas signed "W. Hannaford." The death of Philida has brought sorrow to all her friends: "So flush'd with the beauties of morn, | The rose sheds its fragrance around; | E'er eve, O! how hard to be born! | Its honours lay strew'd on the ground." The second stanza alludes to an elegy on Miss F— ("Florimel") which Hannaford had published in Town and Country Magazine 2 (April 1770) 216.
Go spare me, ye shepherds, awhile,
Nor tempt me no more to be glad;
You cannot my sorrows beguile,
For never was shepherd more sad:
The woodbines that hang o'er the bank,
For cypress and willow I'll change;
I'll give you my pipe and my crook,
But leave me, O! leave me to range.
I see your eyes big with a tear,
Which kindly you combat to hide;
You always to Strephon was dear,
But sorrow and Strephon's ally'd:
Scarce dry'd was the cheek (I may sing)
That late for my Florimel mourn'd:
When death cropt the hopes of the spring,
And Philida never return'd.
'Tis Philida's loss we deplore,
The lonely, the blooming, the gay!
Alas! shall the charms be no more,
That clos'd e'er the noon of the day?
So flush'd with the beauties of morn,
The rose sheds its fragrance around;
E'er eve, O! how hard to be born!
Its honours lay strew'd on the ground.
When late as we follow'd the bier,
How solemnly sad was the scene?
Not an eye but was wet with a tear,
For O! she was lov'd on the green!
The nymphs and the swains from her grave
All seem'd with reluctance to part;
But heav'n its measures will have,
And best can reward our desert.