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Wave, ye fair fields! with golden corn, Ye fruit-trees! with your load be bending;And o'er the valley, eve and morn, Be dews prolific still descending!
Inchdorrock! to thy groves adieu! These eyes no more thy groves shall view; Save when perchance, in midnight dream To wander 'neath their shade I seem;Or think I climb thy flow'ry brae, Or hear the murmur of thy river—But, ah! the vision flits with night away— Adieu, sweet spot! adieu for ever!
ADDRESS TO FANCY.
Now busy Fancy plumes her wing, And flies to many a distant clime,Pursues the fleeting bloom of Spring, And mocks the ravages of time;'Tis her's to lead me wide and far,To realms beyond the polar star,O'er the unfathom'd ocean's breast—Nor stops her weary wing to rest.
