III.

The merry Ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie Seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun Iftill, &c.

IV.

The wanton coot the water fkims,

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,

The stately swan majestic swims,

And every thing is bleft but I.

And maun Iftill, &c.

VOL. II

Ꮐ

V.

V.

The fheep-herd fteeks his faulding flap,
And owre the moorlands whistles fhill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring ftep

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I fill, &c.

VI.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daify's fide,
And mounts and fings on flittering wings,

A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I ftill, &c.

VII.

Come Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will foothe my chearless foul,
When Nature all is fad like me!

And maun Iftill on Menie doat,

And bear the fcorn that's in her e'e!

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be.

S O N G.

Tune, Roflin Castle.

I.

THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,

Loud roars the wild inconftant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I fee it driving o'er the plain;

The Hunter now has left the moor,
The fcatt'red coveys meet fecure,
While here I wander, preft with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr,

11.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
By early Winter's ravage torn ;
Acrofs her placid, azure sky,
She fees the fcowling tempeft fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I muft dare,
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

III.

'Tis not the furging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal, deadly fhore;

Tho' Death in ev'ry shape appear,

The Wretched have no more to fear:

But round my heart the ties are bound,

That heart tranfpierc'd with many a wound;