Where primroses spring on the green tufted brae,|
And the riv'let runs murm'ring below,
O! Fortune, at morning, or noon, let me stray,
And thy wealth on thy vot'ries bestow!
For, O! how enraptur'd my bosom does glow,
As calmly I wander alane,
Where wild woods, and bushes, and primroses grow,
And a streamlet enlivens the scene.
2. Though humble my lot, not ignoble's my state,|
Let me still be contented, though poor;
What Destiny brings, be resign'd to my fate,
Though Misfortune should knock at my door.
I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth,
Nor the titles that affluence yields,
While blithely I roam, in the hey-day of health,
'Midst the charms of my dear native fields.
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