How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care!
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Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
In Twit'nham bowers, and for their Pope implore.
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The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;
No longer steel-clad warriors ride
Along thy wild and willow'd shore.