WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An bar the doors wi driving snaw,
An hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An spin a verse or twa o rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great-folks gift,
That live sae bien an snug:
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.
Its hardly in a bodys powr
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shard;
How best o chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wairt;
But, Davie, lad, neer fash your head,
Tho we hae little gear;
Were fit to win our daily bread,
As langs were hale and fier:
Mair spier na, nor fear na, 1
Auld age neer mind a feg;
The last ot, the warst ot
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at een,
When banes are crazd, and bluid is thin,
Is doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could make us blest;
Evn then, sometimes, wed snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart thats free frae a
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba,
Has aye some cause to smile;
An mind still, youll find still,
A comfort this nae sma;
Nae mair then well care then,
Nae farther can we fa.
What tho, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal,
Yet natures charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please, then,
Well sit an sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme tillt well time tillt,
An singt when we hae done.
Its no in titles nor in rank;
Its no in wealth like Lonon bank,
To purchase peace and rest:
Its no in makin muckle, mair;
Its no in books, its no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
An centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest;
Nae treasures, nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ayes the part aye
That makes us right or wrang.
Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge an drive thro wet and dry,
Wi never ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
Gods creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a thats guid,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell;
Esteeming and deeming
Its a an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu acquiesce,
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state:
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi some
Ans thankfu for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;
They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill:
Tho losses an crosses
Be lessons right severe,
Theres wit there, yell get there,
Yell find nae other where.
But tent me, Davie, ace o hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flattry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
An joys that riches neer could buy,
An joys the very best.
Theres a the pleasures o the heart,
The lover an the frien;
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,
An sets me a on flame!
O all ye Powrs who rule above!
O Thou whose very self art love!
Thou knowst my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent prayr;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!
All hail! ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this worlds thorny ways
Had numberd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In evry care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie, or my Jean!
O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank an file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus an the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance hes fairly het;
And then hell hilch, and stilt, an jimp,
And rin an unco fit:
But least then the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
Ill light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizend hide.
Note 1. Ramsay.R. B. [back]