THE SODGER'S RETURN.

I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger;

I've serv'd my King and Country lang-
Take pity on a sodger!

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever:

66

Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never:

Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't."

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne' pale like onie lily;

She sank within my arms and cried,
"Art thou my ain dear Willie?"

1 Then,

367

"By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!

"The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted."
Quo' she, "my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen' plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!"

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize;
The sodger's wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour o' danger.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.'

TUNE-"THE WEAVER AND HIS SHUTTLE, O. 10

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, 0:

My talents they were not the worst; nor yet my educa tion, O;

Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.

1 Farm.

The following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over.-R. B. Mr. Cunningham found traces of the poet's early his tory in these lines.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

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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, 0:

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, 0;

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O.

To plough and

early, O;

Sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me

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, 0;

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, 0.

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.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER

SON.

TUNE-" FINLAYSTON HOUSE."

FATE gave the world, the arrow sped
And pierc'd my darling's heart;
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart!

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laid:

So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish'd young;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now, fond, I bare my breast;
O, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love, at rest!

1 Miss Lesley Baillie. The ballad was composed by Burns after pending a day with the lady's family, then on their way to England.

AMANG THE TREES.

Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonnie face,

And say, “I canna wrang thee.”

The Powers aboon will tent thee:
Misfortune sha'na steer' thee;
Thou'rt like themselves, sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, Fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !

That we may brag, we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.

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AMANG THE TREES.

TUNE "THE KING OF FRANCE, HE HAD A RACE.

AMANG the trees, where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to her pipe was singing, 0:

2

"Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspey, or Reels,
She dirl❜d them aff fu' clearly, O,

When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, Ŏ.—

Their capon craws and queer ha, ha's,
They made our lugs grow eerie, O;
The hungry bike did scrape and pike
Till we were wae and weary, 0:
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd
A prisoner aughteen year awa,
He fir'd a fiddler in the north
That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

A Highland war-song adapted to the bagpipe.