Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc'd to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
At evening the wild-woods among?
 
No more a winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flowerets so fair;
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.
 
Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?
No, no! the bees, humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.
 
Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known:
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.
 
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Not hope dare a comfort bestow:
Come, then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.