ng scribed to alexander cunngha
now sprg has cd the grove green,
and strew&039;d the lea wi&039; flowers;
the furrow&039;d, wavg rn is seen
rejoice fosterg showers
while ilka thg nature jo
their rrows to forego,
o why th all alone are e
the weary steps o&039; woe!
the trout yonder wiplg burn
that glides, a silver dart,
and, safe beneath the shady thorn,
defies the angler&039;s art—
y life was ance that careless strea,
that wanton trout was i;
but love, wi&039; unrelentg bea,
has srch&039;d y fountas dry
that little floweret&039;s peaceful lot,
yonder cliff that grows,
which, save the l&039;s flight, i wot,
nae ruder visit knows,
was e, till love has o&039;er past,
and blighted a&039; y bloo;
and now, beneath the witherg bst,
y youth and joy nsu
the waken&039;d v&039;rock warblg sprgs,
and clibs the early sky,
nog blythe his dewy gs
orng&039;s rosy eye;
as little reck&039;d i rrow&039;s power,
until the flowery snare
o&039;witchg love, ckless hour,
ade the thrall o&039; care
o had y fate been greennd snows,
or afric&039;s burng zone,
wi&039;an and nature leagued y foes,
peggy ne&039;er i&039;d known!
the wretch whose doo is “hope nae air”
what tongue his woes can tell;
with whase bo, save despair,
nae kder spirits dwell
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