Classic Poem

T HERE'S gowd in the breast of the primrose pale,
— An' siller in every blossom;
There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale,
— And health in the wild wood's bosom.
Then come, my love, at the hour of joy,
— When warbling birds sing o'er us;
Sweet nature for us has no alloy,
— And the world is all before us.

The courtier joys in bustle and power,
— The soldier in war-steeds bounding,
The miser in hoards of treasured ore,
— The proud in their pomp surrounding:
But we hae yon heaven sae bonnie and blue,
— And laverocks skimming o'er us;
The breezes of health, and the valleys of dew —
— Oh, the world is all before us!