Na rather gleefu' turn your face,
Forsake hypocrisy, grimace;
And never hae it understood
You fleg mankind frae being good.
In afternoon, a' brawly buskit,
The joes and lasses loe to frisk it.
Some tak a great delight to place
The modest bon-grace owre the face;
Though you may see, if so inclined,
The turning o' the leg behind.
Now, Comely-Garden and the Park
Refresh them, after forenoon's wark :
Newhaven, Leith, or Canonmills,
Supply them in their Sunday's gills;
Where writers aften spend their pence,
To stock their heads wi' drink and sense.
While danderin cits delight to stray
To Castlehill or public way,

Where they nae other purpose mean,
Than that fool cause o' being seen,
Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue,
Where bonnie pastures meet the view,
And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues,
Befitting Willie Shakspere's muse.
If Fancy there would join the thrang,
The desert rocks and hills amang,
To echoes we should lilt and play,
And gie to mirth the live-lang day.

Or should some canker'd biting shower
The day and a' her sweets deflower,
To Holyrood-house let me stray,
And gie to musing a' the day;
Lamenting what auld Scotland knew,
Bein days for ever frae her view.
O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse
Would pay to thee her couthy vows,
Gin ye wad tent the humble strain,
And gie's our dignity again!
For oh, wae's me! the thistle springs
In domicile o' ancient kings,
Without a patriot to regret

Our palace and our ancient state.

Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

1056.-CARELESS CONTENT.

I am content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground as I could see:
So when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle-humour'd hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,

Whate'er the subject be that starts;

But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.
For chance or change of peace or pain,
For fortune's favour or her frown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal triin.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,

I make no bustling, but abide :
For shining wealth, or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right,
I shun the rancours and the routs;
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;
If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none disposed to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.
Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave;
But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:

I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.

Fond of a true and trusty tie,

I never loose where'er I link;
Though if a business budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think;
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,

And read or write, but without wrath; For should I burn, or break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

I love my neighbour as myself,

Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf,

Came I to crouch, as I conceive:
Dame Nature doubtless has design'd
A man the monarch of his mind.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,

That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be deft, and debonair,
I am content, I do not care.

John Byrom.-Born 1691, Died 1763

My great Master still allows
Needful periods of repose:

By my heavenly Father blest,
Thus I give my powers to rest;
Heavenly Father! gracious name!
Night and day his love the same;
Far be each suspicious thought,
Every anxious care forgot:
Thou, my ever bounteous God,
Crown'st my days with various good:
Thy kind eye, that cannot sleep,
These defenceless hours shall keep;
Blest vicissitude to me!

Day and night I'm still with thee.

What though downy slumbers flee,
Strangers to my couch and me?
Sleepless, well I know to rest,
Lodged within my Father's breast.
While the empress of the night
Scatters mild her silver light;
While the vivid planets stray
Various through their mystic way;
While the stars unnumber'd roll
Round the ever-constant pole;
Far above these spangled skies,
All my soul to God shall rise;
Midst the silence of the night,
Mingling with those angels bright,
Whose harmonious voices raise
Ceaseless love and ceaseless praise.
Through the throng his gentle ear
Shall my tuneless accents hear;
From on high shall he impart
Secret comfort to my heart.
He, in these serenest hours,
Guides my intellectual powers,
And his Spirit doth diffuse,
Sweeter far than midnight dews,
Lifting all my thoughts above
On the wings of faith and love.
Blest alternative to me,

Thus to sleep or wake with Thee!

What if death my sleep invade?
Should I be of death afraid?
Whilst encircled by thine arm,

Death may strike, but cannot harm.
What if beams of opening day
Shine around my breathless clay?
Brighter visions from on high
Shall regale my mental eye.
Tender friends awhile may mourn
Me from their embraces torn;
Dearer, better friends I have
In the realms beyond the grave.
See the guardian angels nigh
Wait to waft my soul on high!
See the golden gates display'd!
See the crown to grace my head!
See a flood of sacred light,

Which no more shall yield to night!
Transitory world, farewell!
Jesus calls with him to dwell.

With thy heavenly presence blest,

Death is life, and labour rest.

1060.-TO-MORROW, LORD, IS THINE.

To-morrow, Lord, is thine,
Lodged in thy sov'reign hand;
And if its sun arise and shine,
It shines by thy command.

The present moment flies,
And bears our life away;

Oh, make thy servants truly wise,
That they may live to-day!

Since on this winged hour
Eternity is hung,
Awake, by thine almighty pow'r,

The aged and the young.

"One thing" demands our care:
Oh, be it still pursued,
Lest, slighted once, the season fair
Should never be renew'd!

Doddridge.-Born 1702, Died 1751.

1061. ON RECOVERY FROM
SICKNESS.

My God, thy service well demands
The remnant of my days;
Why was this fleeting breath renew'd,
But to renew thy praise?

Thine arms of everlasting love

Did this weak frame sustain,
When life was hovering o'er the grave,
And nature sunk with pain.

Thou, when the pains of death were felt,
Didst chase the fears of hell;
And teach my pale and quivering lips
Thy matchless grace to tell.

Calmly I bow'd my fainting head
On thy dear faithful breast;
Pleased to obey my Father's call

To his eternal rest.

Into thy hands, my Saviour God,
Did I my soul resign,
In firm dependence on that truth
Which made salvation mine.

Back from the borders of the grave

At thy command I come; Nor would I urge a speedier flight To my celestial home.

Come, O thou Traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with thee:
With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell thee who I am;
My misery and sin declare;
Thyself hast call'd me by my name,

Look on thy hands, and read it there:
But who, I ask thee, who art Thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.

In vain thou strugglest to get free,
I never will unloose my hold!
Art thou the Man that died for me?

The secret of thy love unfold:
Wrestling, I will not let thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy Nature know
Wilt thou not yet to me reveal
Thy new, unutterable Name?
Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell:

To know it now, resolved I am : Wrestling, I will not let thee go, Till I thy Name, thy Nature know.

What though my shrinking flesh complain, And murmur to contend so long?

I rise superior to my pain:

When I am weak, then I am strong! And when my all of strength shall fail, I shall with the God-Man prevail.

PART II.

Yield to me now, for I am weak;
But confident in self-despair:

Speak to my heart, in blessings speak:

Be conquer'd by my instant pray'r: Speak, or thou never hence shalt move, And tell me if thy Name is Love.

"Tis Love! 'tis Love! thou diedst for me:
I hear thy whisper in my heart!
The morning breaks, the shadows flee,
Pure, universal love thou art :

To me, to all, thy bowels move,
Thy Nature and thy Name is Love.

My pray'r hath power with God: the grace
Unspeakable I now receive;

Through faith I see thee face to face:

I see thee face to face, and live! In vain I have not wept and strove: Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. I know thee, Saviour, who thou art, Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend: Nor wilt thou with the night depart,

But stay and love me to the end; Thy mercies never shall remove; Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. The Sun of Righteousness on me

Hath rose, with healing in his wings: Wither'd my nature's strength, from thee My soul its life and succour brings; My help is all laid up above; Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. Contented now upon my thigh

I halt, till life's short journey end; All helplessness, all weakness, I

On thee alone for strength depend; Nor have I power from thee to move; Thy Nature and thy Name is Love. Lame as I am, I take the prey;

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome;

I leap for joy, pursue my way,

And, as a bounding hart, fly home; Through all eternity to prove

Thy Nature and thy Name is Love.

Charles Wesley.-Born 1708, Died 1788.

1065.-WEARY OF WANDERING. Weary of wand'ring from my God,

And now made willing to return,

I hear, and bow me to the rod;

For thee, not without hope, I mourn; I have an Advocate above,

A Friend before the throne of Love.

O Jesus, full of truth and grace,

More full of grace than I of sin; Yet once again I seek thy face,

Open thine arms, and take me in; And freely my backslidings heal, And love the faithless sinner still.

Thou know'st the way to bring me back,
My fallen spirit to restore;

O for thy truth and mercy's sake,
Forgive, and bid me sin no more;
The ruins of my soul repair,
And make my heart a house of pray'r.