The Winter of Life.
[Written by Burns for Johnson's Museum to a plaintive East Indian air.]
But lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoiced the day,
Through gentle showers, the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:
But now our joys are fled
On winter's blast awa'!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.
But my white pow nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.
Oh, age has weary days,
And nights o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthful prime,
Why com'st thou not again?