I.

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? Rosy Morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy: Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods, Wild nature's tenants freely, gladly stray; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.