Tune, O'er the moor among the heather.


ALL human joy is but a dream,
When 'tis compar'd with solid pleasure;
'Tis but a transitory gleam,
Because 'tis not a lasting treasure.


Fate shoots across and disappoints;
It cheats the wise as well's the simple:
It mocks at all my tricks and cants:
In Fate there's many a turn and wimple.


Hope's, rainbow-like, while 'tis at hand,
Seems pretty from it's var'ous colours;
But when you think you will it find,
It still eludes it's keenest foll'wers.


In fancy's airy dreams I rove,
Deluded still with phantoms flying;
I tri'd my art of winning love,
But ere I kent, my grandeur's dying:


Yet still I wish'd and wish'd again,
Still thought my friendship captivating;
Though what I sought, I sought in vain,
And must all pass for idle prating:


But since 'tis so, I'll take the fields,
And through the flow'ry lawns go walking,
To view the sweets that Nature yields,
And of hard Fate give over talking.


I'll through yon banks, and heath-clad hills,
Go range, to hear the birds all playing,
And listen to yon trickling rills,
And see the fleecy flocks all straying:


I'll see the verdant, flow'ry mead,
And hear the plaintive Cooshat cooing:
My eyes on Nature's beauties feed,
On fields of corn, and rivers flowing.


I'll hail Aurora's gladsome beam,
Shot forth to make all nature canty;
And neither murmur nor complain,
Nor fear that meagre phantom want aye.


My moments, while they thus do pass,
I'll sweetly spend both blithe and jolly;
Yet still I'll mind, all flesh is grass,
And life's a dream and idle folly!


Such bliss profuse, it could not last;
It play'd deceitful with my passion:
I may lament the time that's past,
Though spent with my whole inclination.


I'll to some melancholy cell,
And there repeat what Nature gives me;
And there, in peace, remote I'll dwell,
Where foes, though keen, shall seldom grieve me.


The Muses shy I will invoke,
And tell how Fate and fickle Fortune
Have play'd, in making me their joke,
When I with mirth and glee was sporting.


The rocks shall hear my plaintive tale;
For rocks, like men, can not deceive me:
Their sound flies harmless through the vale;
But men's deceitful smiles now grieve me!


The fury of contending tides
Doth drive me fast on shore that's rocky,
While frowning Fortune stands besides,
And disappointments me do mock aye.


Farewell ye beauties of the Morn,
And Nature's pleasing scenes so pretty:
For follies past I'm left to mourn,
Yet for the best I'll sing my ditty.


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