I.
Now crows the cock in Dunse’s streets;
The twittering sparrow morning greets;
The braying ass his trumpet blew,
For well the morning air he knew;
And hies the hostler to his care,
With bosom light as morning air.
The ruddy streaks of infant day
On Lammer’s hills and Chiviot’s play;
And freshly blows the morning breeze,
From Firth of Forth to German seas.