O Thou, great Governor of all below! 
     If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
     Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
     Or still the tumult of the raging sea: 
     With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me,
     Those headlong furious passions to confine,
     For all unfit I feel my pow’rs to be,
     To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line;
     O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

1782

Fickle Fortune:  A Fragment

     Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,
     She pormis’d fair and perform’d but ill;
     Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me,
     Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.

     I’ll act with prudence as far ’s I’m able,
     But if success I must never find,
     Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
     I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

Raging Fortune—­Fragment Of Song

     O raging Fortune’s withering blast
     Has laid my leaf full low, O! 
     O raging Fortune’s withering blast
     Has laid my leaf full low, O!

     My stem was fair, my bud was green,
     My blossom sweet did blow, O! 
     The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
     And made my branches grow, O!

     But luckless Fortune’s northern storms
     Laid a’ my blossoms low, O! 
     But luckless Fortune’s northern storms
     Laid a’ my blossoms low, O!

Impromptu—­“I’ll Go And Be A Sodger”

     O why the deuce should I repine,
     And be an ill foreboder? 
     I’m twenty-three, and five feet nine,
     I’ll go and be a sodger!

     I gat some gear wi’ mickle care,
     I held it weel thegither;
     But now it’s gane, and something mair—­
     I’ll go and be a sodger!

Song—­“No Churchman Am I”

     Tune—­“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let’s fly.”

     No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
     No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
     No sly man of business contriving a snare,
     For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.

     The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;
     I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
     But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
     And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

     Here passes the squire on his brother—­his horse;
     There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
     But see you the Crown how it waves in the air? 
     There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; for sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.

     I once was persuaded a venture to make;
     A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck;
     But the pursy old landlord just waddl’d upstairs,
     With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.