A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In Whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wandered in those paths

Of life I ought to shun,

As something loudly in my breast

Remonstrates I have done,

Thou know'st that Thou hast formèd me

With passions wild and strong,

1781?

5

ΙΟ

And list'ning to their witching voice

Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,

Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All Good-for such Thou art,-

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In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have erred,

No other plea I have

But, Thou art good; and Goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

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1786.

1784.

MY NANIE, O

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has closed,
And I'll awa to Nanie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill,

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.

My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue

That wad beguile my Nanie, O.

Our auld guidman delights to view

His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by;
I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I

But live an' love my Nanie, O.

1787.

ΙΟ

5

1784?

MARY MORISON

O Mary, at thy window be;

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor!
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing;

I sat, but neither heard or saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,

I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!

A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

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IO

15

20

1800.

THE HOLY FAIR

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.

The rising sun, owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin;

The hares were hirplin down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fu' sweet that day.

There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

Are springin owre the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter;

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Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang,

An' farls baked wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

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When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha’pence,
A greedy glowr black bonnet throws,
An' we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show:

On ev'ry side they 're gath'rin,

Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools,
An' some are busy bleth'rin

Right loud that day.

Here some are thinkin on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;

Ane curses feet that fyled his shins,
Anither sighs and prays;

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,

Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang winkin on the lasses

To chairs that day.