was mine, till love has o'er me past,

and blighted a' my bloom;

and now, beneath the withering st,

my youth and joy consume.

the waken'dv'rock warbling springs,

and climbs the early sky,

winnowing blythe his dewy wings

in morning's rosy eye;

as little reck'd 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 greend snows,

or afric's burning zone,

wi'man and nature leagued my foes,

so y ne'er i'd known!

the wretch whose doom is “hope nae mair”

what tongue his woes can tell;

within whase bosom, save despair,

nae kinder spirits dwell.