17
Wounds, and pain, and burning fever.
Doctors cured wi’ healing art;
Cured, alas! but never, never
Cooled the fever at his heart.
For when a’ were sound and sleeping.
Still and on, baith ear' and late,
Will in briny grief lay steeping,
Mourning o’er his hapless fate.
A’ his gowden prospects vanished,
A’ his dreams o’ warlike fame,
A’ his glittering phantoms banished,
Will could think o’ nought but—hame!
Think o’ nought but rural quiet,
Rural labour, rural ploys,
Far frae carnage, blood, and riot.
War, and a’ its murdering joys.
PART V.
Back to Britain’s fertile garden
Will’s returned (exchanged for facs),
Wi’ ae leg, and no ae farden,
Friend or credit, meat or claes.
Lang through county, burgh, and city,
Crippling on a wooden leg,
Gathering alms frae melting pity—
See poor Gairlace forced to beg!
Placed at length on Chelsea’s bounty.
Now to langer beg thinks shame;
Dreams mice mair o’ smiling plenty—
Dreams o’ former joys and hame.
