How late in bloom shone ilka flow'r,
How gay the woodbine form'd a bow'r;
How sweet the breeze that wafted owre
The sunny plain,
Enlivnin, at the mid--day hour,
The cheerfu' swain.

But, O! nae mair by mornin grey
O'er dewy meads he bends his way,
To hail the smilin God o' day;
Nor to his ear
The laverock pours his pleasing lay,
Sae saft and clear.

Nae mair at eve, when a' is still,
He listens to the tinklin mill,
Nor marks the sun--beams gild the hill,
Or kiss the flood;
Nae mair the mavis, sweet but shrill,
Rings thro' the wood.

Now angry Winter lays in waste
The meads, by dainty Simmer grac'd,
Where aft the goddess Health I chas'd,
Far frae the crowd;
Or strove, wi' Ednam's bard, to taste
Sweet Solitude.

Shut up by raging storms severe
In lowly cot, the winds I hear,
And pity those wha're doom'd to bear
Misfortune's frown,
Wha, houseless, shed the painfu' tear,
To Pride unknown.

Pensive I turn to youth, life's spring,
When Fancy flutter'd on the wing,
And blythe we took in Pleasure's ring
An active part,
Lang ere Reflection's painfu' sting
Could wound the heart.

Wi' thee I spent life's golden age,
Wi' thee aft mock'd keen Winter's rage,
In harmless mirth aye proud t'engage,
And cheat the night;
Or turn'd owre mony a pleasing page
Wi' dear delight.

Yes! Memory aye turns back to view
The scenes fond Fancy decks anew,
When we twa younkers, leal and true,
Knew nought o' Care,
But Hope a flattering picture drew,
In colours fair.

Then maun sic pleasures be forgot,
Ere manhood's sorrows were our lot?
Say, doth Remembrance haunt the spot
Where youth was spent,
When Fortune's frown we heeded not,
Led by Content?

Say, could'st thou quit the busy scene
To taste o' rural joys serene,
Sporting wi' Health the meadows green,
Where Cauda flows,
Where aft sae merry we ha'e been,
And free frae woes?

And wilt thou own him yet a friend,
Wha, distant, wou'd on thee depend,
And whyles thy wholsome counsel lend
His heart to cheer?
If sae, a lang Epistle send
Afore neist year.