January

While winds frae affBen-Lomond blaw,
An’ bar the doors wi’ driving snaw,
An’ hingus owre the ingle,
I setme down to pass the time,
An’ spin a verse or twao’ rhyme,
In hamely, westlinjingle.
While frosty winds blawin the drift,
Bento the chimlalug,
I grudge a weethe great-folk’s gift,
That live saebienan’ snug:
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar’d;
How best o’ chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken nahow to wair’t;
But, Davie, lad, ne’er fashyour head,
Tho’ we hae little gear;
We’re fitto winour daily bread,
As lang’s we’re haleand fier:
“Mair spierna, nor fear na,”^1
Auldage ne’er mind a feg;
The last o’t, the warst o’t
Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e’en,
When banes are craz’d, and bluidis thin,
Is doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that’s free fraea’
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba’,
Has aye some cause to smile;
An’ mindstill, you’ll find still,
A comfort this nae sma’;
Nae mairthen we’ll 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 nature’s 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,
We’ll sit an’ sowtha tune;
Synerhyme till’twe’ll time till’t,
An’ sing’t when we hae done.

It’s no in titles nor in rank;
It’s no in wealth like Lon’onbank,
To purchase peace and rest:
It’s no in makin’ muckle, mair;
It’s no in books, it’s noin 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 aye’s the part aye
That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sicas 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 worththeir while?
Alas! how aftin haughty mood,
God’s creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,
They riot in excess!
Baithcareless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell;
Esteeming and deeming
It’s a’ an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce,
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
Bypining at our state:
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here whasit, hae met wi’some-
An’s thankfu’ for them yet.
They giethe wit of age to youth;
They let us kenoursel’;
They make us see the naked truth,
The real guidand ill:
Tho’ losses an’ crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There’s wit there, ye’ll getthere,
Ye’ll find naeother where.

But tentme, Davie, ace o’ hearts!
(To say aughtless wadwrangthe cartes,
And flatt’ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
An’ joys that riches ne’er could buy,
An’ joys the very best.
There’s a’ the pleasures o’the heart,
The lover an’ the frien’;
Ye haeyour 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’ setsme a’on flame!

O all ye Pow’rs who rule above!
O Thou whose very self art love!
Thou know’st 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 pray’r;
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 world’s thorny ways
Had number’d out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In ev’ry 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 greetwith
My Davie, ormy Jean!

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank an’ file,
Amaistbefore I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus an’ the famous Nine
Were glowrin owremy pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Tillancehe’s fairly het;
And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, an’jimp,
And rinanuncofit:
Butleast then the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I’ll light now, and dightnow
His sweaty, wizen’d hide.