First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place!
Before the mountains heav’d their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command;
That Pow’r which rais’d and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same.
Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that’s past.
Thou giv’st the word: Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought; Again Thou say’st, “Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!”
Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep; As with a flood Thou tak’st them off With overwhelming sweep.
They flourish like the morning flow’r, In beauty’s pride array’d; But long ere night cut down it lies All wither’d and decay’d.
Prayer, In The Prospect Of Death
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear!
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 passions 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 God, 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 assist ev’n me, Those headlong furious passions 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 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.