Whan I'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to' proffer,
And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer:
I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast,
In the feasting o'those wha came only to feast.
The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gi'e,
I thought a' the time was intended for me;
But whanever the end o' my money they saw,
Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'.
My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near,
Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear,
I'm as weel able yet to gi'e counsel that's true,
But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I'm naebody noo.
Lament for the Bards.
[Robert Gilfillan.—Tune, "Hame, hame, to my ain countrie."]
The harp of Scotia dear,
That oft in joy was strung;
Alas! 'tis silent now,
And on the willows hung.
The balmy breath of morn
Awakes no more the strain,
And to the gloamin' gale
It kindles not again!
The minstrels famed in song,
Who gave to song its fame—
Ah! whither have they fled,
The high of note and name?
Alas! not to the bowers
Of song, and summer fair,
But in the tuneless grave,
We mark the mighty there!
The cloud that gathering comes
Across the evening sky,
Obscures in heavy gloom
The fair stars clust'ring high;
So came the cloud of death,
While yet we thought it day,
And in the gloom of night
look all our stars away.
The groves may yet be green,
The valleys still be gay,
And down the sunny glen
The blackbird pour his lay;
But Scotia's harp no more
Swells in the vocal throng,
Nor heard the minstrel's voice
In rapture and in song!
The Weaver’s Wife
[From Blackwood's Magazine.—Air, "The Boatie Rows."]
Oh! weel befa' the busy loom
That plies the hale day lang;
And, clicking briskly, fills the room
Wi' sic a cheery sang.
Oh! weel befa' the eident han'
That cleeds us, great and sma',
And blessings on the kind gudeman
That dearly lo'es us a'.
Our purse is low, our lot is mean,
But waur it well might be:
Our house is canty aye and clean,
Our hearts frae canker free.
We fash wi' nae ambitious scheme,
Nor heed affairs o' state;
We dinna strive against the stream,
Or murmur at our fate.
Oh! mickle is the wealth that springs
Frae industry and peace,
Where nae reproach o' conscience stings,
And a' repinin's cease.
The heart will loathe the richest meat,
If nae kind blessin's sent:
The coarsest morsel will be sweet
When kitchen'd wi' content.
Oh! wad the Power that rules o'er life
Impart some gracious charm,
To keep me still a happy wife,
And shield the house frae harm.
Instead of wealth and growing care,
I ask but health and love:
Instead of warldly wit and leir,
Some wisdom from above.
