The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 88

["The following song," says the poet, "is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over."]

I.

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.

II.

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 situation, O.

III.

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 mistaken, O.

IV.

Then sore hara.s.s'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.

V.

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.

VI.

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.

VII.

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.

VIII.

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O, Some unforeseen misfortune Comes gen'rally upon me, O: Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, Or my goodnatur'd folly, O; But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

IX.

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

VI.

JOHN BARLEYCORN:

A BALLAD.

[Composed on the plan of an old song, of which David Laing has given an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical Tales.]

I.

There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

II.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.

IV.

The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears That no one should him wrong.

V.

The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His beading joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

VII.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

VIII.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm.

And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

IX.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

X.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe; And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

XI.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller us'd him worst of all-- He crush'd him 'tween the stones.

XII.