On the sands
That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray,
When morn unlocks the East, and flings afar
The rosy day-beam! There the boy will stop
To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves
On the bleak strand, while winter o’er the main
Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again
He chaunts his Father’s ditty. Never more
Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb
To the sweet cadence! never more thy tear