Glen Collection of printed music > Printed music > Scots musical museum > Volume 2

Continued.
it
mi
-0 .
object there. Oh, when my heart ie
f ::.ia
1
■ fhock which life deftroys, Is heaven, com _ par d witS lofing \oui
Ye vales, which to the raptur'd eye,
Difclos'd the flow'ry pride of may;
Ye circling hills, whofe fummits high
Blufh'd with the .morning's eariieft ray;
Where heedlefs oft, how far I ftray'd,
And pleas 'd my ruin to purfue,
T fung my dear, my cruel maid;
Adieu, for ever, ah adieu!
Ye dear afsociates of my breaft,(fwell;
Whofe heartswith fpeechlefs fbrrow
And thou, with hoary age oppreft.
Dear author of my life,farewel.
For me, alas! thy fruitlefs tears,
Far, far remote from friends, and home,
Shajl blaft thy venerable years,
And bend the? pining to the tomb.
Sharp are the pangs by nature felt,
From dear relations, torn away;
Yet (harper pangs., my vitals melt,
To hopelefs love* a deftin'd prey.
While. fhe, as angry heav'n,and main,
Deaf to the helplefs failor s prayer,
Enjoys my foul-confuming pain,
And wantons with my deep defpair.
From curfed gold what ills arife,
What horrors life's fair profpect ftain;
Friends blaft their friends with angryeyes
And brothers bleed by brothers flain.
From curfed gold I trace my woe; '.
Could T this fplendid mifchiefboaft.
Nor would my tears- unpitied flow,
Nor would my fighs in air be loft.
Ahl when a mother's cruel care
Nurs'd me an infant on the break,
Had early fate fnrpri/'d me there,
And wrapt me in eternal reTt;fl5eat
Then had this breaft ne'er learn a* to
And tremble with unpitied pain.
Nor had a maid's relehtlefs hate,
Been,ev'n in death, deplor'd in vain.
Oft, in the pleafing toils of love,
With ev'ry winning art I try 'd
To catch the coyly flutt'ring dove,
With killing eyeS & plum}- pride .
But far on nimble pinnions borne „
From love's warm gales £ flow ry plain
She fought the northern climes of fccm
Wh^re ever freezing winter reigns."
Ah me had heaven and fhe provd kind.
Then full of age.& free from care.
How bleft had I my life refignd
Where firft I br'eath'd this vital air:
But fince no flatt'ring hope remains.
Let me my wretched lot purfue;
Adieu, dear friends k. native fcenrs.
To all but grief and love, adieu.
'_ D