Now Spring Has Clad The

GROVE IN GREEN.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[Composed in reference to a love disappointment of the poet's friend, Alexander Cunningham, which also occasioned the song beginning,

"Had I a cave on some wild distant shore."]

I.

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?

II.

The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, 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.

III.

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.

IV.

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

V.

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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CCLVII.

O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER.

[To Jean Lorimer, the heroine of this song, Burns presented a copy of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory inscription, in which he moralizes upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, and signs himself Coila.]

I.

O Bonnie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man, And bonnie she, and ah, how dear! It shaded frae the e'enin sun.

II.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew How pure, amang the leaves sae green: But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen.

III.

All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care.

IV.

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign.

* * * * *

CCLVIII.