Trees with aged arms were warring,
O’er the swelling, drumlie wave.
Such was my life’s deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoy’d;
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A’ my flowery bliss destroy’d.
Tho’ fickle fortune has deceived me,
She promised fair, and performed but ill;
Of monie a joy and hope bereav’d me,
I bear a heart shall support me still.