Classic Poem

Though Humble My Lot

Air—Her sheep had in clusters.

Where primroses spring on the green tufted brae,
 And the riv'let runs murm'ring below,
O Fortune, at morning, or noon, let me stray,
 And thy wealth on thy vot'ries bestow!
For, O how enraptur'd my bosom does glow!
 As calmly I wander alane,
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 blythely I roam, in the hey-day of health,
 'Midst the charms of my dear native fields.English