The poem
BUT lately seen in gladsome green, The woods rejoic’d the day, Thro’ gentle showers, the laughing flowers In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa; Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a’.
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of Age; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, Sinks in Time’s wintry rage. Oh, Age has weary days, And nights o’ sleepless pain: Thou golden time, o’ Youthfu’ prime, Why comes thou not again!