THO’ HUMBLE MY LOT. Air—“Her
sheep had in clusters.” ___ WHERE primroses spring on the green tufted
brae, And the riv’let runs murm’ring
below, O
fortune, at morning, or noon, let me stray! And thy wealth on thy vot’ries
bestow; For,
O how enraptur’d my bosom does glow! As calmly I wander alane, Where
wild woods, and bushes, and primroses grow, And a streamlet enlivens the scene. Tho’
humble my lot, not ignoble’s my state, Let me still be contested, tho’
poor; What
destiny brings, be resign’d to my fate, Tho’ misfortune should knock at my
foor: I
care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth, Nor the titles that affluence
yields, While
blithely I roam, in the hey-day of health, ’Midst the charms
of my dear native fields. |