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The primroſes blow
in the dew of the morning,
And wild ſcatter'd con ſlips
bedeck the green dale.
But what can give pleaſures, de
or what can ſeem fair,
When the lingering moments
are number'd by care?
No birds ſweetly ſinging,
nor flowers gaily ſpringing,
Can feoth the ſweet boſom
of joyleſs deſpair.
The deed that I dar'd,
could it merit their malice;
A King and a Father:
to place on his throne?
His rights are theſe hills,
and his rights are theſe valleys,
Where the wild beaſts find ſhelter,
but I can find none.
But'tis not my ſuffrings,
thus wretched forlorn,
My brave gallant friends,
tis your min I mourn!
FINIS.
