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Ye commons left free in the rude ranks of nature
Ye brown hills, be-clothed in firs as ye be
My wild eye in rapture adores every feature
Ye are as dear as this heart in my bosom to me
O native endearments, I would not forsake thee
I would not forsake thee for sweetest of scenes
For sweetest of gardens that nature could make me
I would not forsake thee, dear valleys and greens
Ye injured fields that once were gay
When nature's hand displayed
Long waving rows of willows grey
And clumps of hawthorn shade
Though nature ne'er drop thee a cloud-resting mountain
Nor waterfalls tumble their music so free
Had nature denied ye a birch tree or fountain
Ye still had been loved, loved as in Eden by me
But now, alas, your hawthorn boughs
All desolate we see
The spoiler's axe their shade devours
And cuts down every tree