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And if the mist, retiring slow,

Roll round its wavy white,
He thinks the morning vapours hide

Some beauty from his sight.
But when behind the western clouds

Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller

Pursues his evening way. Sorely along the craggy road

His painful footsteps creep; And slow, with

pause, He labours up the steep. And if the mists of night close round,

They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,

Some hidden danger near.
So cheerfully does youth begin

Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels

The fears of weary age.

many a feeble



Yes, the year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and blear'd! Death, with his frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard

Sorely-sorely The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling;
It is a sound of woe,

A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes

The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing, “Pray for this poor soul,

Pray-pray!" And the hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers ; But their prayers are all in vain,

All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year, Crown'd with wild flowers, and with heather, Like weak and despised Lear,

A king-a king!
Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! O, the old man grey
Loveth that ever soft voice,

Gentle and low

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To the crimson woods he saith,

To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!' And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from his breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist, nor stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone :

“ Vex not his ghost!

Howl! howl! and from the forest

Sweep the red leaves away! Would the sins that thou abhorrest, O soul, could thus decay,

And be swept away!



The gloomy night is gath’ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, press'd with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her rip’ning corn
By early winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound ;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell! old Coila's hills and dales,
Her healthy moors and winding vales ;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves !
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!



The hollow winds begin to blow,
The clouds look black, the glass is low;
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,
And spiders from their cobwebs creep.
Last night the sun went pale to bed,
The moon in halos hid her head :
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh;
For see, a rainbow spans the sky:
The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel ;
The squalid toads at dusk were seen,
Slowly crawling o'er the green ;
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,
The distant hills are looking nigh:
Hark, how the chairs and tables crack !
Old Betty's joints are on the rack ;
And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,
They imitate the gliding kite;
Or seem precipitate to fall,
As if they felt the piercing ball :
How restless are the snorting swine;
The busy flies disturb the kine;

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