137. Song—Farewell to the Banks of Ayr
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HE 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 scatt’red coveys meet secure;While here I wander, prest with care,Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The Autumn mourns her rip’ning cornBy 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 bonie banks of Ayr. ’Tis not the surging billow’s roar,’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,The wretched have no more to fear:But round my heart the ties are bound,That heart transpierc’d with many a wound;These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,To leave the bonie 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 bonie banks of Ayr!
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