S I T A C h（1 / 1）

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