| |
| WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, | |
| An’ bar the doors wi’ driving snaw, | |
| An’ hing us owre the ingle, | |
| I set me down to pass the time, | |
| An’ spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme, | 5 |
| In hamely, westlin jingle. | |
| While frosty winds blaw in the drift, | |
| Ben to the chimla lug, | |
| I grudge a wee the great-folk’s gift, | |
| That live sae bien an’ snug: | 10 |
| I tent less, and want less | |
| Their roomy fire-side; | |
| But hanker, and canker, | |
| To see their cursed pride. | |
| |
| It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r | 15 |
| To keep, at times, frae being sour, | |
| To see how things are shar’d; | |
| How best o’ chiels are whiles in want, | |
| While coofs on countless thousands rant, | |
| And ken na how to wair’t; | 20 |
| But, Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head, | |
| Tho’ we hae little gear; | |
| We’re fit to win our daily bread, | |
| As lang’s we’re hale and fier: | |
| “Mair spier na, nor fear na,” 1 | 25 |
| Auld age ne’er mind a feg; | |
| The last o’t, the warst o’t | |
| Is only but to beg. | |
| |
| To lie in kilns and barns at e’en, | |
| When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin, | 30 |
| Is doubtless, great distress! | |
| Yet then content could make us blest; | |
| Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste | |
| Of truest happiness. | |
| The honest heart that’s free frae a’ | 35 |
| Intended fraud or guile, | |
| However Fortune kick the ba’, | |
| Has aye some cause to smile; | |
| An’ mind still, you’ll find still, | |
| A comfort this nae sma’; | 40 |
| Nae mair then we’ll care then, | |
| Nae farther can we fa’. | |
| |
| What tho’, like commoners of air, | |
| We wander out, we know not where, | |
| But either house or hal’, | 45 |
| Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woods, | |
| The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, | |
| Are free alike to all. | |
| In days when daisies deck the ground, | |
| And blackbirds whistle clear, | 50 |
| With honest joy our hearts will bound, | |
| To see the coming year: | |
| On braes when we please, then, | |
| We’ll sit an’ sowth a tune; | |
| Syne rhyme till’t we’ll time till’t, | 55 |
| An’ sing’t when we hae done. | |
| |
| It’s no in titles nor in rank; | |
| It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank, | |
| To purchase peace and rest: | |
| It’s no in makin’ muckle, mair; | 60 |
| It’s no in books, it’s no in lear, | |
| To make us truly blest: | |
| If happiness hae not her seat | |
| An’ centre in the breast, | |
| We may be wise, or rich, or great, | 65 |
| But never can be blest; | |
| Nae treasures, nor pleasures | |
| Could make us happy lang; | |
| The heart aye’s the part aye | |
| That makes us right or wrang. | 70 |
| |
| Think ye, that sic as you and I, | |
| Wha drudge an’ drive thro’ wet and dry, | |
| Wi’ never ceasing toil; | |
| Think ye, are we less blest than they, | |
| Wha scarcely tent us in their way, | 75 |
| As hardly worth their while? | |
| Alas! how aft in haughty mood, | |
| God’s creatures they oppress! | |
| Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid, | |
| They riot in excess! | 80 |
| Baith careless and fearless | |
| Of either heaven or hell; | |
| Esteeming and deeming | |
| It’s a’ an idle tale! | |
| |
| Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce, | 85 |
| Nor make our scanty pleasures less, | |
| By pining at our state: | |
| And, even should misfortunes come, | |
| I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some— | |
| An’s thankfu’ for them yet. | 90 |
| They gie the wit of age to youth; | |
| They let us ken oursel’; | |
| They make us see the naked truth, | |
| The real guid and ill: | |
| Tho’ losses an’ crosses | 95 |
| Be lessons right severe, | |
| There’s wit there, ye’ll get there, | |
| Ye’ll find nae other where. | |
| |
| But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts! | |
| (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, | 100 |
| And flatt’ry I detest) | |
| This life has joys for you and I; | |
| An’ joys that riches ne’er could buy, | |
| An’ joys the very best. | |
| There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart, | 105 |
| The lover an’ the frien’; | |
| Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, | |
| And I my darling Jean! | |
| It warms me, it charms me, | |
| To mention but her name: | 110 |
| It heats me, it beets me, | |
| An’ sets me a’ on flame! | |
| |
| O all ye Pow’rs who rule above! | |
| O Thou whose very self art love! | |
| Thou know’st my words sincere! | 115 |
| The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart, | |
| Or my more dear immortal part, | |
| Is not more fondly dear! | |
| When heart-corroding care and grief | |
| Deprive my soul of rest, | 120 |
| Her dear idea brings relief, | |
| And solace to my breast. | |
| Thou Being, All-seeing, | |
| O hear my fervent pray’r; | |
| Still take her, and make her | 125 |
| Thy most peculiar care! | |
| |
| All hail! ye tender feelings dear! | |
| The smile of love, the friendly tear, | |
| The sympathetic glow! | |
| Long since, this world’s thorny ways | 130 |
| Had number’d out my weary days, | |
| Had it not been for you! | |
| Fate still has blest me with a friend, | |
| In ev’ry care and ill; | |
| And oft a more endearing band— | 135 |
| A tie more tender still. | |
| It lightens, it brightens | |
| The tenebrific scene, | |
| To meet with, and greet with | |
| My Davie, or my Jean! | 140 |
| |
| O, how that name inspires my style! | |
| The words come skelpin, rank an’ file, | |
| Amaist before I ken! | |
| The ready measure rins as fine, | |
| As Phoebus an’ the famous Nine | 145 |
| Were glowrin owre my pen. | |
| My spaviet Pegasus will limp, | |
| Till ance he’s fairly het; | |
| And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, an’ jimp, | |
| And rin an unco fit: | 150 |
| But least then the beast then | |
| Should rue this hasty ride, | |
| I’ll light now, and dight now | |
| His sweaty, wizen’d hide. | |
