Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green

Robert Burns was a Scottish poet and lyricist.







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?

The trout in yonder wimpling burn
  That glides, 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.

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.

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 flowery snare
O' witching love, in luckless hour,
  Made me the thrall o' care.

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.

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