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Yet, where sometimes ye mark, the bare mountains among, A green fertile vale spreading fair to the view;Where the mountain stream rushes in beauty along, Like the murmuring burn through the valley of Tow.
On the banks of this burn, when the moonshine was bright On the green fields of corn, and the cottages round,Poor William! alone, in the silence of night, Mix'd his tears with the dew-drops that spangled the ground.He gaz'd on the mountains, the valley, the burn As it flow'd on to mix with the ocean's wave blue;And cried, in despair—"I shall never return To wander again through the valley of Tow!
Oh! why did I look on the cottage with scorn? Why glow'd this proud bosom for glory and fame?Why left I the isle where my grandsires were born, To toil for the splendour that waits on a name?How blithely the lark call'd me up from my rest, How sweet too at night was the soft falling dew,When the sun had scarce sunk in the clouds of the West, But ting'd with his gold beams the mountains of Tow!
How dear are the days of the past to my soul, How sweet are the scenes of my childhood and youth!Roll back, ye blest moments of innocence, roll— When the bosom was glowing with nature and truth!
