Though he warble ne'er so blandly,
His old heart is false though friendly,
For he lingers near me but when fortune smiles.
Weary of his griefs and empty show,
To the quiet woods alone I love to go,
And in sweet repose abide
Where the sylvan echoes ride
On October's drowsy winds that whisper low.
Where the bonnie squirrel flits among the trees,
And the quail his piping flings upon the breeze,