Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc’d to the lark’s early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring,
At evening the wild-woods among?
No more a winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flowerets so fair,
No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure,
But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care.
Is it that Summer’s forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly Winter is near?
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses
Proclaim it the pride of the year.
Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long, too well have I known;
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow:
Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe.
Read all of Robert Burns's poems · About Robert Burns
More by Robert Burns
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog