NOW westlin winds and slaught’ring guns |
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Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather; |
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The moorcock springs on whirring wings |
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Amang the blooming heather: |
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Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, |
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Delights the weary farmer; |
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And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, |
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To muse upon my charmer. |
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The partridge loves the fruitful fells, |
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The plover loves the mountains; |
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The woodcock haunts the lonely dells, |
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The soaring hern the fountains: |
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Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves, |
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The path of man to shun it; |
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The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush, |
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The spreading thorn the linnet. |
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Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find, |
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The savage and the tender; |
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Some social join, and leagues combine, |
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Some solitary wander: |
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Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, |
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Tyrannic man’s dominion; |
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The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry, |
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The flutt’ring, gory pinion! |
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But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear, |
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Thick flies the skimming swallow, |
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The sky is blue, the fields in view, |
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All fading-green and yellow: |
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Come let us stray our gladsome way, |
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And view the charms of Nature; |
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The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, |
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And ev’ry happy creature. |
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We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk, |
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Till the silent moon shine clearly; |
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I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, |
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Swear how I love thee dearly: |
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Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs, |
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Not Autumn to the farmer, |
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So dear can be as thou to me, |
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My fair, my lovely charmer! |
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