And O, my dear Country! wherever I be,
My first-my last prayer shall ascend still for thee, That thou mayest flourish, as lasting as time, UNBLIGHTED BY SLAVERY, UNSULLIED BY CRIME.
AH no! I cannot say "farewell,"
'Twould pierce my bosom through,
And to this heart 'twere death's dread knell
To hear thee sigh-" adieu."
Though soul and body both must part,
Yet ne'er from thee I'll sever,
For more to me than soul thou art,
And O! I'll quit thee-never.
Whate'er through life may be thy fate
That fate with thee I'll share,
If prosperous--be moderate,
İf adverse-meekly bear;
This bosom shall thy pillow be
In every change whatever,
And tear for tear I'll shed with thee,
But O! forsake thee-never.
One home-one hearth shall ours be still,
And one our daily fare;
One altar, too, where we may kneel
And breathe our humble prayer;
And one our praise that shall ascend
To one all-bounteous Giver,
And one our will, our aim, our end,
For O! we'll sunder-never.
And when that solemn hour shall come
That sees thee breathe thy last,
That hour shall also fix my doom,
And seal my eyelids fast;
One grave shall hold us, side by side, One shroud our clay shall coverAnd one then may we mount and glide Through realms of love-for ever.
LAST Monday night, at sax o'clock,
To Mirran Gibb's I went, man,
To snuff, an' crack, an' toom the caup,
It was my hale intent, man:
So down I sat an' pried the yill,
Syne luggit out my sneeshin' mill,
An' took a pinch wi' richt good will,
O' beggar's brown (the best in town),
Then sent it roun' about the room,
To gie ilk ane a scent, man.
The sneeshin' mill, the caup gaed round,
The joke, the crack an' a', man,
'Bout markets, trade, and daily news,
To wear the time awa', man;
Ye never saw a blyther set
queer auld-fashion'd bodies met, For feint a grain o' pride nor pet, Nor eating care got footing there, But friendship rare, aye found sincere, An' hearts without a flaw, man.
To cringing courtiers kings may blaw
How rich they are and great, man,
But kings could match na us at a',
Wi' a' their regal state, man;
For Mirren's swats, sae brisk an' fell,
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell,
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel',
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
An' fired the saul wi' projects bauld,
That daur'd the power o' fate, man.
But what are a' sic mighty schemes,
When ance the spell is broke, man,
A set o' maut-inspired whims,
That end in perfect smoke, man.
An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An' bring us to oursel's again?
As was the fate o' my auld pate,
When that night late I took the gate,
As crouse as ony cock, man.
For, sad misluck! without my hat,
I doiting cam' awa', man,
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
The win' began to blaw, man.
When I cam' to the Drygate Brig,
The win' blew aff my gude brown wig,
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' my view,
While I stood glow'ring, waefu' blue,
Wi' wide extended jaw, man.
When I began to grape for't syne,
Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man,
I coupit owre a meikle stane,
An' skailed my pickle snuff, man ;
My staff out o' my hand did jump.
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump,
But whar it flew I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue,
It looks sae fleesome waff, man.
O had you seen my waefu' plight,
Your mirth had been but sma', man,
An' yet, a queerer antic sight,
I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fifty years an' mair,
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae sair;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,
An' brak my snout an' a', man.
Now, wad you profit by my loss?
Then tak' advice frae me, man,
An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing,
On fumes o' barley bree, man ;
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud,
That aft it's gude, if dirt an' bluid,
Be a' he has to dree, man.
MANG a' the braw lads that come hither to woo me,
There's only but ane I wad fain mak' my joe;
And though I seem shy, yet sae dear is he to me,
I scarce can forgie mysel' when I say "No."
My sister she sneers 'cause he hasna the penny,
An' cries, "ye maun reap, my lass, just as ye sow,"
My brither he bans, but it's a' ane to Jenny,
She'll just tak' the lad she likes-whether or no.
* A friend of Rodger's in Leith, a Mr. Tevendale, who was devoted to music, and was an excellent composer, had long urged the poet to give him words to set to a tune. Meeting him on one occasion with their mutual friend, Mr. Gardner of the Glasgow Chronicle, he insisted on that gentleman urging Rodger to write the long expected song. Mr. Gardner gave Tevendale his choice of a subject; but Mr. Tevendale could not hit upon one to please himself. Mr. Gardner at last, observing that Mr. Tevendale made frequent use of the words "whether or no," suggested that as the ground-work. It was at once assented to this song was written by Rodger, and at the same time John Tait, a poet of no mean order, and George Donald, of Whistle Binkie fame, took up the same subject, and the three effusions appeared at once in the Liberator.
My father he cries, "tak' the laird o' Kinlogie,
For he has baith mailins and gowd to bestow : My mither cries neist, "tak' the heir o' Glenbogie, But can I please baith o' them ?-weel I wat no! And since 'tis mysel' maun be gainer or loser—
Maun drink o' life's bicker, be't weal or be't woe,
I deem it but fair I should be my ain chooser ;—
To love will I lippen, then-whether or no.
Cauld Prudence may count on his gowd and his acres,
And think them the sum o' a' blessings below,
But tell me, can wealth bring content to its makers?
The care-wrinkled face o' the miser says "No!"
But, oh, when pure love meets a love corresponding,
Such bliss it imparts as the world cannot know;
It lightens life's load, keeps the heart from desponding,
Let Fate smile or scowl, it smiles-whether or no!
O WHO are so hearty, so happy and free,
Or who for the proud care so little as we ?
No tyrants control us, no slaves we command,
Like free passage-birds we traverse sea and land;
And still to the comfort of all we attend,
By singing out, "Caldrons or kettles to mend."
Each climate each soil, is to us still the same,
No fix'd local spot for our country we claim;
Yon lordly domain, with its castles and towers,
We care not a pin for-the world it is ours;
Superiors we know not-on none we depend,
While our business is, caldrons or kettles to mend.
The law says we're vagrants-the law tells a lie,
The green earth's our dwelling, our roof the blue sky,
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