The Poems of Robert Fergusson :: :: University of Virginia Library

When gold, man's sacred deity, did smile,
My friends were plenty, and my sorrows few;
Mirth, love, and bumpers did my hours beguile,
And arrowed Cupids round my slumbers flew.

What shepherd then could boast more happy days?
My lot was envied by each humbler swain;
Each bard in smooth eulogium sung my praise,
And Damon listen'd to the guileful strain.

Flattery, alluring as the Syren's lay,
And as deceitful thy inchanting tongue,
How have you taught my wavering mind to stray,
Charm'd and attracted by the baneful song!

My pleasant cottage, shelter'd from the gale,
Arose with moss, and rural ivy bound;
And scarce a flow'ret in my lowly vale,
But was with bees of various colours crown'd.

Free o'er my lands the neighbouring flocks could roam;
How welcome were the swains and flocks to me!
The shepherds kindly were invited home,
To chase the hours in merriment and glee.

To wake emotions in the youthful mind,
Strephon with voice melodious tun'd the song;
Each sylvan youth the sounding chorus join'd,
Fraught with contentment 'midst the festive throng.

My clust'ring grape compens'd their magic skill,
The bowl capacious swell'd in purple tide;
To shepherds, liberal, as the chrystal rill,
Spontaneous gurgling from the mountain's side.

But ah! these youthful sportive hours are fled;
These scenes of jocund mirth are now no more;
No healing slumbers tend my humble bed,
No friends condole the sorrows of the poor.

And what avail the thoughts of former joy?
What comfort bring they in the adverse hour?
Can they the canker-worm of care destroy,
Or brighten fortune's discontented lour?

He who hath long travers'd the fertile plain,
Where nature in its fairest vesture smil'd,
Will he not cheerless view the fairy scene,
When lonely wand'ring o'er the barren wild?

For now pale poverty, with haggard eye
And rueful aspect, darts her gloomy ray;
My wonted guests their proffer'd aid deny,
And from the paths of Damon steal away.

Thus, when fair summer's lustre gilds the lawn,
When rip'ning blossoms deck the spreading tree,
The birds with melody salute the dawn,
And o'er the daisy hangs the humming bee.

But when the beauties of the circling year
In chilling frosts and furious storms decay;
No more the bees upon the plains appear,
No more the warblers hail the infant day.

To the lone corner of some distant shore,
In dreary devious pilgrimage I'll fly,
And wander pensive where deceit no more
Shall trace my footsteps with a mortal eye.

There solitary saunter o'er the beach,
And to the murm'ring surge my griefs disclose;
There shall my voice in plaintive wailings teach
The hollow caverns to resound my woes.

Sweet are the waters to the parched tongue;
Sweet are the blossoms to the wanton bee;
Sweet to the shepherd sounds the lark's shrill song;
But sweeter far is Solitude to me.

Adieu, ye fields, where I have fondly stray'd!
Ye swains who once the fav'rite Damon knew;
Farewel, ye sharers of my bounty's aid!
Ye sons of base Ingratitude adieu!