Are likewise truly blest.

But, Oh! what crowds in ev'ry land
Are wretched and forlorn;

Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frames!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
And helpless off-spring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By nature's law design'd,

Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressèd, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my agèd limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasures torn;
But, Oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun-

As something, loudly in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done

Thou know'st that Thou hast formèd me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,

Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All Good! - for such Thou art—
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and Goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

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 favor; O

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavor, 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 broil, and labor to sustain me, O

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; O

For

one,

he said, to labor 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; 0

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-mor row, O.