An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh
An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
An’ ca’t thee mad.
When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow
For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow,
Where’er thou gaed.
The sma’, droop-rumpled, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur’d thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle,
An’ gart them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O’ saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aucht hours’ gaun,
On guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,
For days thegither.
Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,
Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and riskit,
An’ slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer;
I kenn’d my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it;
Thou never lap, an’ stenned, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But, just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov’t awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’,
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa
That thou hast nurst;
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,
The very warst.
Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,
Wi’ something yet.
And think na, my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin’,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin’;
For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart I’ll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether
To some hain’d rig,
Where ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi’ sma’ fatigue.
LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS
Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a’ is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joys wi’ me,
And say thou’lt be my dearie O?
Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie O?
The primrose bank, the wimpling burn,
The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn,
The wanton lambs at early morn
Shall welcome thee, my dearie O.
And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower,
We’ll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie O.
When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray,
The weary shearer’s hameward way,
Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray,
And talk o’ love, my dearie O.
And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest;
Enclaspèd to my faithfu’ breast,
I’ll comfort thee, my dearie O.
THE POSIE
O Luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen,
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green,
And a’ to pu’ a Posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year,
And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear,
For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer:
And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view,
For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonny mou;
The hyacinth’s for constancy, wi’ its unchanging blue,
And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there;
The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day,
But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away;
And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,
And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear:
The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear,
And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve,
And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above,
That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remove,
And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.
MY LADY’S GOWN THERE’S GAIRS UPON’T
My lord a-hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane,
By Colin’s cottage lies his game,
If Colin’s Jenny be at hame.
My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t;
But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.
My lady’s white, my lady’s red,
And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude,
But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid
Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed.
Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss,
Where gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass,
There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass,
A lily in a wilderness.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o’ lover’s hymns:
The diamond dew in her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest,
The flower and fancy o’ the west;
But the lassie that a man lo’es best,
O that’s the lass to make him blest.
My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t;
But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786
Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow’r,
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet
Wi’ spreckl’d breast,
When upward springing, blythe to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade,
By love’s simplicity betray’d,
And guileless trust,
Till she like thee, all soil’d, is laid
Low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d:
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruin’d, sink!
Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight
Shall be thy doom!
[Illustration:
Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour.]
THOUGHTS IN WINTER
The wintry wast extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae:
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
‘The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,’
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest,—they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (Oh! do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE
Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they’re creepin’ alang,
Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’,
A night o’ gude fellowship sowthers it a’;
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jad gae:
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is—‘Welcome, and welcome again!’
JOHN BARLEYCORN
A BALLAD
There was three Kings into the east,
Three Kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough’d him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerfu’ Spring came kindly on,
And show’rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris’d them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn enter’d mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show’d he began to fail.
His colour sicken’d more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To shew their deadly rage.
They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell’d him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn’d him o’er and o’er.
They fillèd up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heavèd in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appear’d,
They toss’d him to and fro.
They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us’d him worst of all,
For he crush’d him between two stones.
And they hae ta’en his very heart’s blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,
For if you do but taste his blood,
’Twill make your courage rise;
’Twill make a man forget his woe;
’Twill heighten all his joy:
’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,
Tho’ the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland!
WILLIE BREWED
O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na found in Christendie.
We are na fou’, we’re no that fou,
But just a drappie in our e’e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we’ll taste the barley bree!
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And mony a night we’ve merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth! she’ll wait a wee.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa’,
He is the King among us three!
COUNT THE LAWIN
Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night,
But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light,
For ale and brandy’s stars and moon,
And bluid-red wine’s the risin sun.
Then guidwife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then guidwife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen’,
But here we’re a’ in ae accord,
For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord.
My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o’ care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An’ ye drink it a’ ye’ll find him out.
RATTLIN’, ROARIN’ WILLIE
O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie
O, he held to the fair,
An’ for to sell his fiddle,
And buy some other ware;
But parting wi’ his fiddle,
The saut tear blin’t his e’e;
And rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,
Ye’re welcome hame to me!
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
O sell your fiddle sae fine;
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o’ wine!
If I should sell my fiddle,
The warl’ would think I was mad;
For mony a rantin’ day
My fiddle and I hae had.
As I cam by Crochallan,
I cannily keekit ben—
Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie
Was sitting at yon board en’;
Sitting at yon board en’,
And amang guid companie;
Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,
Ye’re welcome hame to me!
AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP
(TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD)
While briers an’ woodbines budding green,
An’ paitricks scraichin’ loud at e’en,
An’ morning poussie whiddin’ seen,
Inspire my Muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien’,
I pray excuse.
On Fasten-een we had a rockin’,
To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin’;
And there was muckle fun and jokin’,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin’
At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife:
It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A’ to the life.
I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel,
What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I ‘Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark!’
They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin’ fain to hear’t,
And sae about him there I spier’d;
Then a’ that kenn’d him round declar’d
He had ingine,
That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t,
It was sae fine.
That, set him to a pint of ale,
An’ either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel,
Or witty catches,
’Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith,
Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie’s death,
At some dyke-back,
A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith
To hear your crack.
But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell;
Tho’ rude an’ rough,
Yet crooning to a body’s sel,
Does weel eneugh.
I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An’ hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet what the matter?
Whene’er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say ‘How can you e’er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?’
But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes,
Ye’re maybe wrang.
What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an’ stools;
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye’d better ta’en up spades and shools,
Or knappin’-hammers.
A set o’ dull conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o’ Greek!
Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire,
That’s a’ the learning I desire;
Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s, the bauld an’ slee,
Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.
Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I’se no insist,
But gif ye want ae friend that’s true,
I’m on your list.
I winna blaw about mysel,
As ill I like my fauts to tell;
But friends, an’ folks that wish me well
They sometimes roose me;
Tho’ I maun own, as mony still
As far abuse me.
There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses—Gude forgie me;
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;
Maybe some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care,
If we forgather,
An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin’-ware
Wi’ ane anither.
The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,
An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water;
Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better
Before we part.
Awa, ye selfish warly race,
Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace,
Ev’n love an’ friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack!
I dinna like to see your face,
Nor hear your crack.
But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,
‘Each aid the others,’
Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!
But to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing, or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
THE CARDIN’ O’T
I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’,
To make a coat to Johnny o’t;
For Johnny is my only jo,
I lo’e him best of ony yet.
The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t;
The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the linin’ o’t.
For though his locks be lyart gray,
And though his brow be beld aboon;
Yet I hae seen him on a day,
The pride of a’ the parishen.
The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t,
The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the linin’ o’t.
JOHN ANDERSON MY JO
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT
Again rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep’d in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be!
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.
The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill,
Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark, ’tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be!
DUNCAN DAVISON
There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg,
And she held o’er the moors to spin;
There was a lad that follow’d her,
They ca’d him Duncan Davison.
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh,
Her favour Duncan could na win;
For wi’ the rock she wad him knock,
And ay she shook the temper-pin.
As o’er the moor they lightly foor,
A burn was clear, a glen was green,
Upon the banks they eased their shanks,
And aye she set the wheel between:
But Duncan swore a haly aith,
That Meg should be a bride the morn;
Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith,
And flung them a’ out o’er the burn.
We’ll big a house—a wee, wee house,
And we will live like King and Queen,
Sae blythe and merry we will be
When ye set by the wheel at e’en.
A man may drink and no be drunk;
A man may fight and no be slain;
A man may kiss a bonnie lass,
And aye be welcome back again.
AN EXHORTATION TO DAVIE
NOT TO FORSAKE THE MUSE
AULD NEIBOR ...
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O’ war’ly cares,
Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld gray hairs.
But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit,
Be hain’t wha like.
For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,
Rivin’ the words to gar them clink;
Whyles dazed wi’ love, whyles dazed wi’ drink,
Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whyles, but aye owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan
O’ rhymin’ clink,
The devil-haet, that I sud ban,
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’;
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’;
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,
An’ while ought’s there,
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’,
An’ fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin, wi’ the spavie
Frae door to door.
WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin’ to me,
And come as ye were na comin’ to me.
At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flee:
But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e—
Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me,
Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither’ tho’ jokin’ ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
THE RANTIN’ DOG THE DADDIE O’T
O wha my babie-clouts will buy?
Wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me whare I lie?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.
Wha will own he did the faut?
Wha will buy my groanin’ maut?
Wha will tell me how to ca’t?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.
When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.
Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain?
Wha will kiss me o’er again?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN
When chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning as I wander’d forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose agèd step
Seem’d weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow’d o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
‘Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?’
Began the rev’rend sage;
‘Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s rage?
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me to mourn
The miseries of man.
‘The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling’s pride—
I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev’ry time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.
‘O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force give nature’s law,
That man was made to mourn.
‘Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, oh! ill-match’d pair!
Show man was made to mourn.
‘A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But oh! what crowds in ev’ry land
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro’ weary life this lesson learn—
That man was made to mourn.
‘Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn—
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!
‘See yonder poor o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful tho’ a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
‘If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,—
By nature’s law design’d,—
Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has man the will and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn?