NOW spring has clad the grove in green,
And strewd the lea wi flowers;
The furrowd, 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 anglers art
My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;
But Love, wi unrelenting beam,
Has scorchd my fountains dry.
That little flowerets peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnets flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love has oer me past,
And blighted a my bloom;
And now, beneath the withering blast,
My youth and joy consume.
The wakend lavrock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe his dewy wings
In mornings rosy eye;
As little reckd I sorrows power,
Until the flowery snare
Owitching Love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o care.
O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Africs burning zone,
Wiman and nature leagued my foes,
So Peggy neer Id known!
The wretch whose doom is Hope nae mair
What tongue his woes can tell;
Within whase bosom, save Despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.