III.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae, The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery, thro' her shortening day, Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

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[Illustration: "O WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD".]