Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O’erhung with wild woods’ thich’ning green;
The fragant birch, and hawthorn here,
Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene:
The flowers sprang—wanton to be prest,
The bird sang love—on every spray;
Till, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.
Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes,
And fondly broods, with miser care!