18
Wounds, and pain, and burning fever.
Doctors cured wi’ healing art;
Cured, alas! but never, never,
Cooled the fever at his heart.
For, whan a’ war sound and sleeping,
Still and on, baith ear and late.
Will in briny grief lay steeping,
Mourning owre his hapless fate,
A’ his gowden prospects vanished,
A’ his dreams of warlike fame,
A’ his glittering phantoms banished,
Will could think of nought but hame.
Think of nought but rural quiet,
Rural labour, rural ploys;
Far frae carnage, bluid, and riot,
War, and a’ its murdering joys.
Back to Britain’s fertile garden,
Will's returned (exchanged for faes),
Wi’ ae leg, and no a farden,
Friend or credit, meat or claise.
Lang through country, 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 hanger beg thinks shame,
Dreams ance mair of smiling plenty.
Dreams of former joys, and hame.
