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We may be poor-Robie and I,
Light is the burden love lays on;
Content and love brings peace and joy,-
What mair hae queens upon a throne?'

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MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order O;
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing O,
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth
regarding O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine 0; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming 0:

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet my education O ; Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour 0 : Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour O;

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Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends forsaken 0;

And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken O.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion 0,

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion O

The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried O; But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I: nor person to befriend me 0;

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain

me 0;

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me

early 0;

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly O.

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Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander O,

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber O; No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow O,

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace O, Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice O;

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther O; But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her O.

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money O, Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me OMischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly O;

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But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy O.

All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour O,

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther O;

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you O,

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you O.

THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED TO ME.

WHEN Januar' wind was blawing cauld,
As to the north I took my way,
The mirksome night did me enfauld,
I knew na where to lodge till day.

By my good luck a maid I met,
Just in the middle o' my care;
And kindly she did me invite

To walk into a chamber fair.

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,

And thank'd her for her courtesie; I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,

And bade her mak a bed to me.

She made the bed baith large and wide,
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down;
She put the cup to her rosy lips,

And drank, 'Young man, now sleep ye soun.'

She snatch'd the candle in her hand,
And frae my chamber went wi' speed;

But I call'd her quickly back again
To lay some mair below my head.

A cod she laid below my head,
And served me wi' due respect;
And to salute her wi' a kiss,

I put my arms about her neck.

'Haud aff your hands, young man,' she says,

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Her hair was like the links o' gowd,

Her teeth were like the ivorie;

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.

Her bosom was the driven snaw,
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
The lass that made the bed to me.

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I kiss'd her owre and owre again,

And aye she wist na what to say;
I laid her between me and the wa',-
The lassie thought na lang till day.

Upon the morrow when we rose,

I thank'd her for her courtesie;
But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd
And said 'Alas! ye've ruin'd me.

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,
While the tear stood twinkling in her ee,
I said 'My lassie, dinna cry,

For ye aye shall make the bed to me.'

She took her mither's Holland sheets,
And made them a' in sarks to me:
Blythe and merry may she be,

The lass that made the bed to me.

The bonnie lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the bed to me:

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die,

The lass that made the bed to me!

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CALEDONIA.

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,

From some of your northern deities sprung:
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?)
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would:
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign,

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ;

Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,

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'Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!'

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort,

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand;
Repeated, successive, for many long years,

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land.
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside;
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly,-
The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore;
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore:
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel: But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose,

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life:
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run :
For brave Caledonia immortal must be;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose,

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base;

But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse;

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Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always.

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