A PRAYER,

WRITTEN UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

H Thou great Being! what Thou art

0円

Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath !

Oh free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design,
Then man my soul with firm resolves
To bear, and not repine!

FROM A MEMORANDUM BOOK.

OH 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

Oн leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye 're safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks

For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel ;
That feeling heart but acts a part;
"T is rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. .

MY

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

TUNE- The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.

Y father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,

And carefully he bred me in decency and or

der, 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;

Though 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;

Resolved 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'erpowered, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;

And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harassed, and tired 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 power, 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 broil, and labor to sustain me, O;

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;

For one, he said, to labor bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, through life I'm doomed 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 tomorrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O,

Though 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 further, O;

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labor I earn a little money, O,

Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon

me,

0:

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatured folly, 0:

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 ardor, O,

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the further, 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

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALle.

S Mailie and her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin' by.

Wi' glowering een and lifted hands,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it.
He gaped wide, but naething spak ·
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

'Oh thou, whose lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
And bear them to my master dear.

'Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep,