Now spring has clad the grove in green,
And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers;
The furrow’d, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers.
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps o’ woe!
The trout in yonder wimpling burn
That glides, a silver dart,
And, safe beneath the shady thorn,
Defies the angler’s art—
My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;
But Love, wi’ unrelenting beam,
Has scorch’d my fountains dry.
That little floweret’s peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love has o’er me past,
And blighted a’ my bloom;
And now, beneath the withering blast,
My youth and joy consume.
The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe his dewy wings
In morning’s rosy eye;
As little reck’d I sorrow’s power,
Until the flowery snare
O’witching 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,
So Peggy ne’er I’d known!
The wretch whose doom is “Hope nae mair”
What tongue his woes can tell;
Within whase bosom, save Despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.
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