Fickle Fortune: A Fragment.
Though fickle Fortune
has deceived me,
She pormis’d fair
and perform’d but ill;
Of mistress, friends,
and wealth bereav’d me,
Yet I bear a heart shall
support me still.
I’ll act with
prudence as far ’s I’m able,
But if success I must
never find,
Then come misfortune,
I bid thee welcome,
I’ll meet thee
with an undaunted mind.
Raging Fortune Fragment Of Song.
O raging Fortune’s
withering blast
Has laid my leaf full
low, O!
O raging Fortune’s
withering blast
Has laid my leaf full
low, O!
My stem was fair, my
bud was green,
My blossom sweet did
blow, O!
The dew fell fresh,
the sun rose mild,
And made my branches
grow, O!
But luckless Fortune’s
northern storms
Laid a’ my blossoms
low, O!
But luckless Fortune’s
northern storms
Laid a’ my blossoms
low, O!
Impromptu “I’ll Go And Be A
Sodger”.
O why the deuce should
I repine,
And be an ill foreboder?
I’m twenty-three,
and five feet nine,
I’ll go and be
a sodger!
I gat some gear wi’
mickle care,
I held it weel thegither;
But now it’s gane,
and something mair
I’ll go and be
a sodger!
Song “No Churchman Am I”.
Tune “Prepare,
my dear Brethren, to the tavern let’s fly.”
No churchman am I for
to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier
to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business
contriving a snare,
For a big-belly’d
bottle’s the whole of my care.
The peer I don’t
envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant,
though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows,
like those that are here,
And a bottle like this,
are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire
on his brother his horse;
There centum per centum,
the cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown
how it waves in the air?
There a big-belly’d
bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did
die; for sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That
a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded
a venture to make;
A letter inform’d
me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord
just waddl’d upstairs,
With a glorious bottle
that ended my cares.
“Life’s
cares they are comforts” a maxim laid
down
By the Bard, what d’ye
call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with
th’ old prig to a hair,
For a big-belly’d
bottle’s a heav’n of a care.
A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge.
Then fill up a bumper
and make it o’erflow,
And honours masonic
prepare for to throw;
May ev’ry true
Brother of the Compass and Square
Have a big-belly’d
bottle when harass’d with care.
My Father Was A Farmer.
Tune “The
weaver and his shuttle, O.”
My father was a farmer
upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred
me in decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly
part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;
For without an honest
manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
Then out into the world
my course I did determine, O;
Tho’ to be rich
was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;
My talents they were
not the worst, nor yet my education, O:
Resolv’d was I
at least to try to mend my situation, O.
In many a way, and vain
essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O;
Some cause unseen still
stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;
Sometimes by foes I
was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken,
O;
And when my hope was
at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.
Then sore harass’d
and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain
delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes,
like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;
The past was bad, and
the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour
was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor
view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and
sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;
To plough and sow, to
reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to
labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown,
and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to
wander, O,
Till down my weary bones
I lay in everlasting slumber, O:
No view nor care, but
shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow,
O;
I live to-day as well’s
I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.
But cheerful still,
I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,
Tho’ Fortune’s
frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice,
O:
I make indeed my daily
bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O:
But as daily bread is
all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my
labour, I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune
comes gen’rally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake,
or by neglect, or my goodnatur’d folly, O:
But come what will,
I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be
melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth
and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you
look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi
boasts, or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted
clown I will prefer before you, O.
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 cheerful 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 show their deadly
rage.
They’ve taen 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 turned him o’er
and o’er.
They filled up a darksome
pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved 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 taen 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!