ong inscribed to alexander ingham
ow spring has clad the grove in green,
and strew'd the lea wi' flower
the furrow'd, waving is see
rejoi f showers.
while ilka thing in nature joi
their sorrows to,
o why thus all alone are mine
the weary steps o' woe!
the trout in yonder wimpling bur
that glides, a silver dart,
and, safe beh the shady thorn,
defies the angler's art—
my life was ahat careless stream,
that wanton trout was i
ut love, wi' uing beam,
has scorch'd my fountains dry.
that little floweret's peaceful lot,
in yonder cliff that grows,
which, save the li's flight, i wot,
ae ruder visit knows,
was miill love has o'er me past,
and blighted a' my bloom
and now, beh the withering blast,
my youth and joy e.
the waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,
and climbs the early sky,
winnowing blythe his dewy wing
in m's rosy eye
as little reck'd i sorrow's power,
until the flowery snare
o'witg love, in luckless hour,
made me the thrall o' care.
o had my fate been greenland snows,
or afric's burning zone,
wi'man and nature leagued my foes,
o peggy ne'er i'd known!
the wretch whose doom is “hope nae mair”
what tongue his woes tell
within whase bosom, save despair,
ae kinder spirits dwell.
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