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WILLIAM ERSKINE, Esq.
Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. Like April morning clouds, that pass, With varying shadow, o'er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life's chequered scene of joy and sorrow; Like streamlet of the mountain north, Now in a torrent racing forth, Now winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering on the plain; Like breezes of the autumn day, Whose voice inconstant dies away,
And ever swells again as fast,
· Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell,
I love the license all too well,
To raise the desultory song.