Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc'd to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wandring,
At evening the wild-woods among?
No more a winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flowerets so fair:
No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure,
But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care. —
Is it that Summer's forsaken our vallies,
And grim, surly Winter is near?
No, no! the bees humming round the gay roses
Proclaim it the pride of the year. —
Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known:
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. —
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Not Hope dare a comfort bestow:
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. —
