written in 1795
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 within yon 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 her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye; As little reckt 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 leagu'd my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whase doom is, hope nae mair, What tongue his woes can tell; Within whase bosom save Despair Nae kinder spirits dwell.