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  'Tis a pleasure from Heaven, a joy from above, That raises our souls far from scenes that are here.

When life’s busy scene threatens clouds o’er our head, And frail fickle fortune now leaves us to mourn, We lean on love’s bosom when friendship is dead And blest in our love, we forget we’re forlorn: Every care is at rest—all our sorrow is fled, But the thought that love’s bosom should from us be torn.

And when in the calm vale of years we recline On that breast which thro’ life’s stormy sea with us strove. How blest is the thought that whene’er we decline, We decline to the grave on the bosom we love: Of all thy choice blessings, kind Heav’n be it mine, Thro’ life’s varied scene, the soft bosom of love.

How long and drearie is the night,
 * When I am frae my dearie!

I restless lie frae e’en to morn,
 * Tho’ I were ne’er sae wearie.
 * For, oh! her lanely nights are lang,