If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me With pa.s.sions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do Thou, All-Good--for such Thou art-- In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and Goodness still Delighteth to forgive.

Stanzas, On The Same Occasion

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between-- Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms, Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms: I tremble to approach an angry G.o.d, And justly smart beneath His sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence,"

Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way; Again in folly's part might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow'r a.s.sist ev'n me, Those headlong furious pa.s.sions to confine, For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

1782

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 pa.s.ses 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 b.u.mper and make it o'erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May ev'ry true Brother of the Compa.s.s and Square Have a big-belly'd bottle when hara.s.s'd with care.

My Father Was A Farmer

Tune--"The weaver and his shuttle, O."