THE SOGER'S RETURN.

TUNE- THE MILL MILL O.'

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest soger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reached the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn blossom,

O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom !

My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger;

I've serv'd my King and Country lang-
Take pity on a soger!

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever:
Quo' she, a soger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz❜d-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like onie lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful soger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ;

But glory is the soger's prize;

The soger's wealth is honour:

The brave poor soger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he's his Country's stay
In the day and hour o' danger.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

TUNE THE WEAVER AND HIS SHUTTLE, O.'

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, O Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O

My talents they were not the worst; nor yet my education, O

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situa tion, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour; O

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour; O

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

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

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

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; O

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

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

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

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 tomorrow, 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; O

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good

natur'd folly; O

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.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.

TUNE-FINLAYSTON HOUSE.'

FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierc'd my darling's heart;
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart !

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish'd young ;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-day long.

Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now, fond, I bare my breast,
O, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love, at rest!