ind--

[Music]

_Macheath._ My Heart was so free,
It rov'd like the Bee,
'Till _Polly_ my Passion requited;
I sipt each Flower,
I chang'd every Hour,
But here every Flower is united.

_Polly._ Were you sentenc'd to Transportation, sure, my Dear, you could
not leave me behind you-- could you?

_Macheath._ Is there any Power, any Force that could tear me from thee?
You might sooner tear a Pension out of the Hands of a Courtier, a Fee
from a Lawyer, a pretty Woman from a Looking-glass, or any Woman from
Quadrille. --But to tear me from thee is impossible!

AIR XVI. Over the Hills and far away.

[Music]

Were I laid on _Greenland's_ Coast,
And in my Arms embrac'd my Lass;
Warm amidst eternal Frost,
Too soon the Half Year's Night would pass.

_Polly._ Were I sold on _Indian_ Soil,
Soon as the burning Day was clos'd,
I could mock the sultry Toil
When on my Charmer's Breast repos'd.

_Macheath._ And I would love you all the Day,

_Polly._ Every Night would kiss and play,

_Macheath._ If with me you'd fondly stray

_Polly._ Over the Hills and far away.

_Polly._ Yes, I would go with thee. But oh! --how shall I speak it?
I must be torn from thee. We must part.

_Macheath._ How! Part!

_Polly._ We must, we must. --My Papa and Mama are set against thy Life.
They now, even now are in Search after thee. They are preparing Evidence
against thee. Thy Life depends upon a moment.

AIR XVII. Gin thou wert mine awn thing--

[Music]

Oh what Pain it is to part!
Can I leave thee, can I leave thee?
O what pain it is to part!
Can thy _Polly_ ever leave thee?
But lest Death my Love should thwart,
And bring thee to the fatal Cart,
Thus I tear thee from my bleeding Heart!
Fly hence, and let me leave thee.

One Kiss and then-- one Kiss-- be gone-- farewel.

_Macheath._ My Hand, my Heart, my Dear, is so riveted to thine, that I
cannot unloose my Hold.

_Polly._ But my Papa may intercept thee, and then I should lose the very
glimmering of Hope. A few Weeks, perhaps, may reconcile us all. Shall
thy _Polly_ hear from thee?

_Macheath._ Must I then go?

_Polly._ And will not Absence change your Love?

_Macheath._ If you doubt it, let me stay-- and be hang'd.

_Polly._ O how I fear! how I tremble! --Go-- but when Safety will give
you leave, you will be sure to see me again; for 'till then _Polly_ is
wretched.

AIR XVIII. O the Broom, &c.