Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green. To Mr. Cunningham.

I.         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 of woe? II.         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. III.         The little flow'ret'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 with'ring blast             My youth and joy consume. IV.         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 flow'ry snare         O' witching love, in luckless hour,             Made me the thrall o' care. V.         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.