 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
THOUGH HUMBLE MY LOT.
Where primroses spring on the green-tufted brae,
And the rivulet runs murmuring below,
Oh, fortune! at morning, or noon, let me stray,
And thy wealth on thy votaries bestow:
For, oh! how enraptured my bosom does glow
As calmly I wander alone,
Where wild woods, and bushes, and primroses grow,
And a streamlet enlivens the scene.
And the rivulet runs murmuring below,
Oh, fortune! at morning, or noon, let me stray,
And thy wealth on thy votaries bestow:
For, oh! how enraptured my bosom does glow
As calmly I wander alone,
Where wild woods, and bushes, and primroses grow,
And a streamlet enlivens the scene.
Though humble my lot, not ignoble's my state,
Let me still be contented, though poor;
What destiny brings, be resigned to my fate,
Though misfortune should knock at my door.
I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth,
Nor the titles that affluence yields,
While blithely I roam, in the heyday of health,
'Midst the charms of my dear native fields.
Let me still be contented, though poor;
What destiny brings, be resigned to my fate,
Though misfortune should knock at my door.
I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth,
Nor the titles that affluence yields,
While blithely I roam, in the heyday of health,
'Midst the charms of my dear native fields.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |