Tune, Tweed Side


HOW gaily at first we begin
Our lives in this uncertain state?
We shine like the delightful sun,
That gives light to both small and great.
We ardently hasten to climb,
Scarce feeling, yet still we ascend,
And rise upon the hill of time,
Expecting great pleasure to find.


How sweet the first ideas are,
That wander and pass through our minds?
How fully each joy we possess,
And flourish like flow'rs in their prime?
How pleasant is the Book of Fate,
Till once that we it understand?
We find partial hope is our lot,
That often did fancy command:


But when that our fortune is known,
Our fond expectation is past;
Some thorns, that were formerly sown,
May rise up and prick us at last:
Those thorns we say do us much harm,
They're sent for to bear us close down;
Our smiles can no more bring a charm;
There's nought in our looks but a frown.


Such alas! is the fate of the man,
In this world who hopes to be blest;
From object to object he roams,
Yet still's disappointed at last:
The toys that do glance in his eye,
All gay at a distance appear;
But soon as he does them draw nigh,
Like bubbles, they vanish in air!


Back to top