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Robert Tannahill















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The Storm




Now the dark rains of Autumn discolour the brook,
And the rough winds of Winter the woodlands deform;
Here, lonely, I lean by the sheltering rock,
Listening to the voice of the loud howling storm.


How dreadfully furious it roars on the hill,
The deep groaning oaks seem all writhing with pain.
Now awfully calm, for a moment 'tis still,
Then bursting it howls and it thunders again.


How cheerless and desert the fields now appear,
Which so lately in Summer's rich verdure were seen,
And each sad drooping spray from its heart drops a tear,
As seeming to weep its lost mantle of green.


See, beneath the rude wall of yon ruinous pile,*
From the merciless tempest the cattle have fled,
And yon poor patient horse, at the gate by the stile,
Looks wistfully home for his sheltering shed.


Ah ! who would not feel for yon poor gipsy race,
Peeping out from the door of an old roofless barn ;
There my wandering fancy her fortunes might trace,
And sour discontent there a lesson might learn.


Yet oft in my bosom arises the sigh,
That prompts the warm wish distant scenes to explore ;
Hope gilds the fair prospect with visions of joy,
That happiness reigns on some far distant shore.













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