The sickle and scythe had dismantled the vallies Stern winter began to strip naked each tree, When Fortune, who long had pursu'd us with malice, Cry'd, "Haste, leave the Banks of the Don and the Dee." With joy we accepted the blest invitation, The summons extorted nor sigh, nor a groan, For Gods! who can figure our sad situation, While camp'd on the bleak sterile Links of the Don. Four months, drench'd with rain, on the verge of the ocean, 'Mongst straw and coarse blankets we comfortless lay; By night the rude winds kept our tents still in motion, The concave of heav'n was our cov'ring by day. The prospects around us was dark and unpleasing, As barren and scorch'd as the centrical zone; We'll importune Heav'n, with prayers unceasing, To camp us no more on the Links of the Don. Adieu! rugged landscapes, mere outcasts of nature, Which Flora ne'er deck'd with a blossom or tree, Where mountains of sand, enormous in stature, Lie scatter'd profusely o'er every lea. 'Mongst wilds of Siberia I'd sooner go wander, For ever forgotten, for ever unknown, Or spend my last breath on the banks of Scamander, Before I'd return to the Links of the Don.
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Embro, Embro Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin