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.

The 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 laverock warbling springs,
    And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe his dewy wings
    In morning's rosy eye;
As little reck't 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.