TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.

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; Ο
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 broil, and labour to sustain me,
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 generally 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.

ON A BANK OF FLOWERS.

ON a bank of flowers, in a summer day, | Her robes, light waving in the breeze,
For summer lightly drest,
The youthful blooming Nelly lay,
With love and sleep opprest;

SLOW spreads the gloom my soul | Ye lofty Banks that Evan bound,

THOU lingering star, with less'ning | Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning

green;

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd

scene.

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper

wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

TO MARY.

COULD aught of song declare my pains, | Then let the sudden bursting sigh

Could artful numbers move thee, The Muse should tell, in labour'd

The heart-felt pang discover;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,
O read th' imploring lover!

For well I know thy gentle mind
Disdains art's gay disguising;
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd,
The voice of nature prizing.

FRAGMENT.

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wet wi' dew!

O, what a feast her bonie mou! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner!