On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi' me!

Our billie 's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea!

Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random splore; Nae mair he'll join the merry roar; In social key; For now he's taen anither sh.o.r.e.

An' owre the sea!

The bonie la.s.ses weel may wiss him, And in their dear pet.i.tions place him: The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!

Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy b.u.mmle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee: He was her Laureat mony a year, That's owre the sea!

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be!

So, took a berth afore the mast, An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's c.u.mmock, On a scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguidin, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding; He dealt it free: The Muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in cozie biel: Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, An' fou o' glee: He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea.

Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie!

Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonilie!

I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea!

Song--Farewell To Eliza

Tune--"Gilderoy."

From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native sh.o.r.e; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar: But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee.

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore!

A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more!

But the latest throb that leaves my heart, While Death stands victor by,-- That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh!

A Bard's Epitaph

Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this gra.s.sy heap sing dool, And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pa.s.s not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave, Here pause--and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn the wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit: Know, prudent, cautious, self-control Is wisdom's root.

Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq.

Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honoured name!

(For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

Epitaph For Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

The poor man weeps--here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd; But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or d.a.m.n'd!

Epitaph On "Wee Johnie"

Hic Jacet wee Johnie.

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know That Death has murder'd Johnie; An' here his body lies fu' low; For saul he ne'er had ony.

The La.s.s O' Ballochmyle

Tune--"Ettrick Banks."

'Twas even--the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang; The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang: In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, All nature list'ning seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy: Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air like nature's vernal smile: Perfection whisper'd, pa.s.sing by, "Behold the la.s.s o' Ballochmyle!"

Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in autumn mild; When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild: But woman, nature's darling child!

There all her charms she does compile; Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonie la.s.s o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain!

Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonie la.s.s o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, Where frame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine: Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks or till the soil; And ev'ry day have joys divine With the bonie la.s.s o' Ballochmyle.