Pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed.
Suspense is worst than disappointment.
The trout in yonder wimpling burn - That glides, a silver dart, - And, safe beneath the shady thorn, - Defies the anglers art.
And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min?