“Life’s cares they are comforts”—­a maxim laid down
     By the Bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown;
     And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair,
     For a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care.

A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge

     Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow,
     And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
     May ev’ry true Brother of the Compass and Square
     Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care.

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 situation, 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 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 moil, 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 to-morrow, O.

     But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his 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 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.