The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And o'er the moorlands whistles shirill,
Wi' wild, unequal wand'ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark. 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn glaist, I hameward glide.
Come, winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my chearless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me.
'Tis past! the pangs of love are past
'Tis past! the pangs of love are past,
I love, I love no more;
Yet who would think I am, at last,
More wretched than before?
How blest, when first my heart was freed
From love's tormenting care,
If cold indifference did succeed,
Instead of fierce despair!
But, ah! how ill is he releas'd,
Tho' love a tyrant reigns,
When the successor in his breast
Redoubles all his pains!