1.
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!
2.
The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, 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.
3.
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.
4.
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't I Sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare
O' witching Love in luckless hour
Made me the thrall o' care!
5.
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, whose doom is ' hope nae mair,'
What tongue his woes can tell,
Within whose bosom, save Despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell!

Now spring has clad the grove in green,
And strewed the meadow with flowers;
The furrowed, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While every thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O, why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout whithin yonder meandering steam
Glides swift, a silver dart,
And, safe beneath the shady thorn,
Defies the anglers art:
My life was once that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I,
But Love with unrelenting beam
Has scorched my fountains dry.

The little floweret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which save the linnet's flight, I know,
No ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love has over me past,
And blighted all my bloom;
And now beneath the withering blast
My youth and joy consume.

The wakened lark warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe his dewy wings
In Morning's rosy eye:
As little heeded I Sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare
Of witching Love in luckless hour
Made me the slave of care!

O, had my fate been Greenland snows
Or Africa's burning zone,
With Man and Nature leagued my foes,
So Peggy never I had known!
The wretch, whose doom is ' hope no more,'
What tongue his woes can tell,
Within whose bosom, save Despair,
No kinder spirits dwell!