Song 7 Poem by Anne Hunter

O'ER the lone heath I wander wild,
Or sing beneath the hawthorn shade,
While the soft breeze of ev'ning mild
Hovers around my careless head.

Sweet solitude, dear scenes of calm repose!
How far unlike the busy world are those.
So fancy sings, ere young desire
With grief, with joy inspires her lay,
Ere love has touch'd the soul with fire,
And wak'd to life the conscious clay;
Sweet sympathies, sad joys, and tender woes,
Still how unlike the busy world are those.