The priest anathemas may threat-- Predicament, sir, that we're baith in; But when honour's reveille is beat, The holy artillery's naething.
And now I must mount on the wave-- My voyage perhaps there is death in; But what is a watery grave? The drowning a Poet is naething.
And now, as grim death's in my thought, To you, sir, I make this bequeathing; My service as long as ye've ought, And my friendship, by God, when ye've naething.
The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? Or what does he regard his single woes? But when, alas! he multiplies himself, To dearer serves, to the lov'd tender fair, To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, To helpless children,--then, Oh then, he feels The point of misery festering in his heart, And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward: Such, such am I!--undone!
Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains, Where rich ananas blow! Farewell, a mother's blessing dear! A borther's sigh! a sister's tear! My Jean's heart-rending throe! Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft Of my paternal care. A faithful brother I have left, My part in him thou'lt share! Adieu, too, to you too, My Smith, my bosom frien'; When kindly you mind me, O then befriend my Jean!
What bursting anguish tears my heart; From thee, my Jeany, must I part! Thou, weeping, answ'rest--“No!” Alas! misfortune stares my face, And points to ruin and disgrace, I for thy sake must go! Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, A grateful, warm adieu: I, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still remember you! All hail then, the gale then, Wafts me from thee, dear shore! It rustles, and whistles I'll never see thee more!
To the Rev. James Steven, on his text, Malachi, ch. iv. vers. 2. “And ye shall go forth, and grow up, as Calves of the stall.”
Right, sir! your text I'll prove it true, Tho' heretics may laugh; For instance, there's yourself just now, God knows, an unco calf.
And should some patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na, sir but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a stirk.
But, if the lover's raptur'd hour, Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, You e'er should be a stot!
Tho' when some kind connubial dear Your but--and--ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns.