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 toll, and sweat, and moll, 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 a 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 good-natur’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.

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE

As Mailie, an her lambs thegither,

Was ae day nibblin on the tether,

Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,

An owre she warsl’d in the ditch:

There, groanin, dying, she did lie,

When Hughoc he cam doytin by.

Wi glowrin een, and lifted han’s

Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s;

He saw her days were near-hand ended,

But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it!

He gaped wide, but naething spak,

At length poor Mailie silence brak.

‘O thou, whase lamentable face

Appears to mourn my woefu case!

My dying words attentive hear,

An bear them to my Master dear.

‘Tell him, if e’er again he keep

As muckle gear as buy a sheep,

O, bid him never tie them mair,

Wi wicked strings o hemp or hair!

But ca’ them out to park or hill,

An let them wander at their will:

So may his flock increase, an grow

To scores o lambs, and packs o woo’!